


Dealing with the Consequences

by nemo_r



Category: The Eagle | Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-08
Updated: 2012-01-08
Packaged: 2017-10-29 05:13:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 61,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nemo_r/pseuds/nemo_r
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From <a href="http://the-eagle-kink.livejournal.com/2132.html?thread=1339732#t1339732">this prompt</a> at eagle_kink: <i>"Esca and Marcus, instead of killing the Seal Prince in the final battle, capture him instead and bring him back as sort of a prisoner of war. Having been captured, the Seal Prince is shamed and can never return to his tribe..."</i></p><p>Title from the quote: “Honour isn't about making the right choices. It's about dealing with the consequences.”<br/>(<i>Midori Koto, Highlander</i>)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Liathan

**Author's Note:**

> A note on naming - I started using Liathan = Seal Prince early on, and while I later realised it would make things awkward for book readers, the name was too stuck in my head to easily dislodge. So, I apologise to all book readers who may get cognitive dissonance from this. PRETEND IT'S AN ENTIRELY DIFFERENT LIATHAN.

**

They had begun piling logs on top of each other for the funeral pyre when Liathan awoke. He convulsed, choking and retching, his lungs expelling masses of water, scraping his insides raw. They had their swords on him in moments, blades unwavering, their eyes hard.

He swiped the back of his hand across his mouth, feeling the softness of his river-washed skin. It took a moment for the dizziness to pass, for the film of water to clear from his eyes. He saw his brothers on the ground, their bodies laid out beside their Roman enemies. Blue clay mixing with the soil, washing back into the river, into the earth, as they should. As he should.

He crawled to his knees and their swords closed in around him. The Roman slave standing tall, bringing the metal to his throat, to finish now what his fingers had not. Liathan held his head high. Fingers clenching uselessly in the wet soil as he waited for the blow.

Then Esca stepped forward, reaching for the slave's hand and shoving the blade away from Liathan's neck. Liathan stared, uncomprehending as Esca spoke to the slave in his own tongue, their ugly, blocky language falling smoothly from his lips.

The slave lowered his sword. Esca kept talking and the look in the slave's eyes began to slowly change. Liathan had flash of comprehension, the knowledge of what Esca was saying sure in his mind. He blamed his water-logged head for his slowness.

"Kill me," he said, the words coming out raw. It was the water he'd choked up, that was all. Esca stopped speaking and turned to look at him, a hardness coming over his face. Liathan had seen that look directed at the slave. But the man was not a slave, that much was clear, that much and more, was clear now. He could not trust Esca's face, nor his eyes, nor the words that fell from his lips.

Liathan pushed himself to his feet. He swayed a little, his hands spread for balance. The wet stones shifted under his feet and he almost fell back into the river, crashing to his knees and catching himself at the last moment. He winced, facing the ground, eyes falling shut. Then he pushed against the stones and surged upright. He held himself still by force of will, ignoring the sickening way the land rocked.

The Romans shifted their feet, a nervous breeze running through them, but the slave kept his sword point to the ground and they all followed his example. No, he was no slave. The lies Liathan had swallowed twisted in his gut like fouled rations.

"Kill me," he said again, looking at Esca. "I die with honour." _Unlike you._ Esca did not flinch, no hint that he had understood the unspoken. The slave spoke to Esca, without looking away from Liathan, and Esca replied in his tongue, translating perhaps.

Liathan raised his chin, ignoring his unease at his own ignorance. He remembered the slave's impotent anger when Esca and Liathan had talked in their own language. Would that he could turn time back, send the sun spinning backwards in the sky. He would have taken the offer Esca made him, would have slit the slave's scarred, Roman throat.

The slave who was not a slave snapped out an order and the Romans hurried to obey – old men in skins and furs. It hurt, the thought that these ancient, decrepit Romans had won against his brothers. The proof of his folly, running his people until their strength had gone, carried on only by the fire of his own betrayal. He'd let them spill into the valley like fools, wanting the blood spray on his face, wanting to watch the slave choke and die under his hands, watch Esca's lying eyes turn dull and dead.

They pushed him down, shoving him back to the ground. He writhed and fought, snarling wordlessly like a wild-man. They brought him down all the same. Bound his hands and legs with rope, scratchy and rough against his skin. Trussed him like prey, like an animal, like a slave.

The Roman slave... Liathan racked his mind for the name, Esca had told them, his father had said it so jeeringly. _Marcus Flavius Aquila._ (He saw his father's body in his mind's eye, small and strange in death, the spark that had made him great had fled from his bones.)

Aquila had them light the pyre for one of the Romans. The rest of the dead were left by the river for the crows. He cared nothing for the Roman dogs, but it hurt to see his people abandoned without rites, without prayers.

Esca would not meet his eyes as they turned from the pyre. Walking past the dead as if he did not see them.

They slung Liathan onto the horse, lashing him to the saddle so he would not fall. His furs, heavy with water, stuck wetly to his skin.

He spoke the ritual words into the horse's flesh. Begged the Gods to pile their anger on his useless back. It was his choices, his decisions that had sent his men to their ignoble deaths. Let them find peace in the afterlife. He would suffer for them. Suffer enough for all of them.

His son was last along the line. Eyes staring blankly up at the sky, skin drained inhuman pale. The blood washed from the jagged cut across his neck.

Esca stopped and knelt, brushing his hand over the boy's eyes to close them. He leant over him and pressed a kiss to his unlined brow, lips moving in a silent whisper before joining the others. Liathan stared at the small body, looking peaceful now, as if sleeping. He kept his eyes on him, turning his head at an angle to keep the body in sight, his muscles ached and the riverbank was soon obscured by the Romans marching behind. Still he looked, kept looking until the valley was far behind them and even the trees had turned into a mess of dark green.

The swaying of the horse worsened the sickness in his head. Only the fact that he'd already expelled all the liquid within his stomach stopped him from fouling the horse's flank. Each stumble, each lurch sent twitching lines of pain across his brow, across his chest, across his stomach. His clothes slowly dried, the wind chilly as it cut across his back. The heat of the horse was a furnace in comparison, carrying with it the unfamiliar scent of horse-sweat and treated leather. Each step took them further from his home, further south, towards the land of his enemies.

They halted when the sky purpled and grew black. Weak Roman eyes unable to navigate the darkness. Liathan's vision blurred as they lifted him from the horse, his body screaming in pain as his abused muscles were forced into a new setting. They propped him against a tree and he could barely manage to focus on his breathing, let alone his captors.

After a few minutes, once his myriad pains were once more controlled, he raised his head, drawing his knees up to his chest and looping his tied arms around them.

They'd made camp efficiently, setting the perimeter, pulling down branches to shelter them from the worst of the wind. Two of the Romans went to gather game. Liathan saw Esca had a pair of rabbits, cut down by his arrows while they journeyed. Liathan knew first hand how sharp his aim. But the memory of hunting with him was soured, and he pushed it away.

Aquila sat and watched Esca skin and gut the first rabbit. They talked in the Roman's language, voices rough with humour and presently Esca slung the other to Aquila, who began preparing it with his own knife.

No one looked at Liathan.

The Romans returned eventually, they had vermin mostly, game was scarce in the Winter months, the year had only just begun to turn towards the Spring.

They lit a fire. No fear of pursuit, not now. Esca and Aquila sat a little apart from the others, the distance deferential, not wary, similar to the seating around his own camp fire. He understood why they treated Aquila so, he clearly commanded these men. Though whether that was from before, or due to the eagle that stood watching over the camp, Liathan wasn't sure.

He didn't look at the eagle again. A bad omen, bad omen from the start.

Aquila shifted, grimacing and Esca moved round towards him, leaving the preparation of the food to the Romans. He had Aquila stretch out his leg and pulled the cloth from it to reveal a scar, the skin around it irritated and red. Esca began to bind it carefully with strips of cloth, Aquila bit down against the pain. Liathan watched, hoping it would grow infected and kill him, but knowing his luck was too poor for such fortune.

Soon the food was cooked and they settled in to eat, trading stories in their own tongue. The rhythm of talk was low and easy, but, perhaps the dead weighted on them, or perhaps it was his own presence at the edge of the fire. Their talk was not as high spirited as was common after battle, and soon they fell silent.

After he had finished his portion, Esca stood and went to the fire, taking a further portion of food and carrying outside the circle, towards Liathan. He straightened, pushing against the tree, feeling the roughness of the bark at his back. Esca approached him slowly, eventually stopping to squat in front of him.

"I will untie your hands," he said, looking at Liathan, ignoring the tense silence behind them. These Romans, the old men. They understood what was being said, of course they did. Their armour was old and rough, replaced here and there with more familiar leathers. They had lived across the wall long enough to learn, long enough to trick people into thinking they had honour. Just like Esca.

"Cut my bonds and I will kill you," said Liathan.

Esca's face did not change and Liathan questioned again how he could have trusted this man, how he could have once seen his smiles as true, believed anything he showed, other than this ugly blank mask.

Esca knelt on the ground opposite Liathan. He leant forwards, raising his hand, a leg (rabbit, too large for vermin) held in it. "Eat."

Liathan kept his mouth shut, staring at Esca, aware his hatred was showing in his eyes.

"Eat and you will live. Live and you may yet kill me," Esca said this steadily, as if commenting on the flavour of the meat. Still his face was blank. A good skill for a liar -- such control.

Liathan opened his mouth and Esca brought the leg forward. Liathan ripped a strip of meat from the bone, imagining some other flesh between his teeth and Esca smiled, a fierce, bitter smile, as if he read the thought from Liathan's eyes. Perhaps he had, Liathan was no liar, no snake that he had to hold his thoughts separate from his body.

He swallowed and bit again, the rabbit, though tough, was not burnt to charcoal as his own food often was, and the juices escaped his lips to trail down his chin.

He ate the meat fast, hunger awakening in his stomach and the bone was stripped clean in a matter of moments.

Esca remained in front of him a second longer, his eyes once again dark and impenetrable. Then he stood smoothly and walked back into the firelight.

Liathan wiped his chin on his shoulder, the sudden urge to hide his face in his furs so strong, that he forced himself to turn back, to stare and meet every gaze he could. He stared each of them down, except Esca, who was looking at Aquila, and Aquila, who was returning his look.

Liathan closed his eyes, but the image stayed burnt, like the firelight, on the black of his eyelids.

**

 _The water rushed over his feet. It was cold, the chill of icy freshwater springs. It rushed past his legs like a shivering whisper, echoing strangely in the valley._

 _His father stood behind him, hand on his shoulder, heavy on his shoulder. There were men in front of him, tall men, tall as his father. Their eyes were pits of darkness. He was afraid._

 _His father's grip tightened on his shoulder. He was speaking, but the wind snatched away his words. The wind, loud now, screaming past them, screaming like a voice risen in mourning, screaming over the mountains._

 _His father's grip on his shoulder was hurting and fear rose in a choking wave. He began to fight it, push it away. The hand was stone. The men were shadows, their eyes gaping holes. There was blade against his neck and it was sinking into his flesh, sawing across his throat. He could not shout. The wind was screaming. Blood bubbling up and flowing over his lips. He was falling. His father's face cold and stern. His father's face blank and dead. The water was rushing over him. There were hands gripping his neck. Sinking into the wound and scraping painfully against his spine._

Liathan startled awake.

His pulse was pounding in his ears and he was shaking -- weak and light-headed. His breath was coming in rapid, painful gasps. He had fallen to the side as he slept and his entire body was aching and tense, muscles locked tight.

He forced himself under control, forced his breathing to steady. The wind through the trees was was loud. He shoved away his memory of the dream, pushing himself back up until he was sitting. He was shivering still. _Just the cold from sleeping on the ground._

He pressed his eyes closed, but images from the dream threw themselves up against his eyelids and he snapped them back open. He looked across the camp and stilled, muscles pulling tight. Esca was sitting by the glowing remains of the fire, still and silent in the grey pre-dawn light. No one else moved, the Romans still slept by the fire, huddled in their furs and skins.

Esca did not speak. Just stared, eyes unreadable. And Liathan felt pressure build in his throat, _the blade slicing into his skin_. What are you looking at? He wanted to ask. What did you see? Had he moved in his sleep? Moaned and shook like a child in the throes of a nightmare?

Esca did not speak and Liathan asked none of the questions gathering in his chest. Finally, after a length of time that felt like hours, but must have been only minutes, Esca turned away to look beyond the camp. Liathan breathed out slowly, the tension flowing from his muscles.

He did not fall back asleep. Though Esca did not turn to look at him again, Liathan spent the time watching the sky turn gradually whiter.

Soon the Romans began to wake and break camp, working as efficiently as they had last night. There was talking then, all in the Roman tongue. Esca stowed his belongings, he made no outward show of listening, but Liathan was sure he knew what was being said. He piled the packs onto the horse. Then he unfolded a long rope and tied one end to the saddle.

He had apparently taken the role of Liathan's keeper, for it was he who approached him, unbuckling his knife as he drew closer. Liathan tensed. "You will walk," Esca said, "if you try to run..." He hitched his shoulder, drawing attention to the bow slung over his back.

He fixed Liathan with a hard look. Liathan said nothing and Esca took his silence as agreement, bending down and cutting through the bonds on his legs. The second he was free, Liathan kicked out hard. Esca, clearly expecting it, grabbed Liathan's foot around the ankle and pulled down sharply, sending Liathan sprawling to the ground.

Liathan grappled with him, trying to pin him beneath his body, but Esca was fast, his body all bones and sinew. He kneed Liathan in the stomach, struck out at his head with his elbow and in a matter of moments Liathan was pinned beneath him, Esca's blade tickling his throat. Esca's hair was a little ruffled, a reddish flush to his cheeks.

"Are you done?"

Liathan bared his teeth and Esca grinned fiercely. "No, I guess not."

Aquila asked something in his own tongue and Esca replied in turn, not taking his eyes from Liathan.

"I'm going to let you up now. Try anything and I'll pin you down again." He stayed on top of Liathan a second longer, perhaps waiting for Liathan to try and buck him off. But Liathan stayed still. He was remembering the last time they had wrestled, laughing and carefree after the hunt. Esca had pinned him then as well and he had been glad. Proud his small friend held such hidden strength, such skill.

Misery twisted in his gut and Esca stepped off him smoothly. Liathan pushed himself to his feet and stood, silently waiting.

Esca was not smiling now, the humour entirely fled from his face. He looked as if he might speak, but Liathan didn't want to hear anything he had to say. He dropped his head, looking down at the floor. Aware of the message he was giving, head bowed. But better to seem broken than to truly break.

Esca said nothing to him and he tied the rope from the horse to the bonds around Liathan's hands. It was not long before they were moving again.

At first he kept falling. Aching muscles seizing up at odd times, and the uneven lurch of the rope as the horse moved was difficult to match to his pace. The rhythm of the walk was off, not the familiar lope he used when in pursuit of prey. Each time he lengthened his stride, he would be tugged in a different direction by the rope. Still, he managed to keep his feet under him, not falling to the ground to be dragged along behind, as Aquila had been so many days ago.

These men were slow without their horses to carry them. They moved at a child's pace. It was an insult to be their prisoner. An insult to have lost to them, and Liathan bore it badly. His shoulders slumping as the weak sun broke the clouds and shone down upon his bare, washed head.

Caught in his thoughts, he did not realise they were stopping until he struck the horse's rear, the animal shying and tossing his head at the impact. Liathan moved swiftly back, wary of the horses hind legs, but the beast was well trained, or perhaps simply tired, for it did nothing.

The Romans laughed, their eyes glittering, and Liathan turned away from them, biting his lip. He looked instead at the land, recognising it. He was at the edge of his people's hunting grounds. Any further and it would become unfamiliar, the very rocks and mountains would work against him. He cursed his earlier inattention. He had to escape today. Before they took him any further.

He turned to look at the Romans. They were talking again, but their words were clearly farewells and Liathan realised this must have been what they'd been talking about. Half of the men turned and began to walk away towards the east. Only four remaining with Aquila and Esca, and Liathan himself made seven.

This was good for him. Fewer men would make escape easier. They began moving again and this time Liathan watched as they went. Esca, for all his threats, walked at the front with Aquila, his bow holstered over his back. Clearly he did not expect Liathan to run at all. Perhaps his show of brokenness had persuaded him – Liathan remembered the lines of the dead by the river -- perhaps he thought Liathan had nothing to return to.

Liathan swallowed against the roughness in his throat. He watched the Romans. They would glance at him occasionally, to make sure he was keeping up, but otherwise they ignored him, talking between themselves, in their own language.

Liathan raised his bound hands causally and scratched at his jaw. He tugged sharply on the necklace of teeth hanging around his neck ignoring the pain as it pulled at his skin. Finally the leather snapped and he lowered his hands. He looped the extra length around his fingers, and slid it until he could grip the longest tooth tightly. Then he shoved it into the knotted rope, jerking it and twisting to saw through the fibres.

It was slow going, the tooth was not as sharp as a blade and the angle was awkward, but slowly the fibres began to fray.

They were walking over uneven ground, a detour, trying to avoid the main road south, and the wild men and warriors that plagued it. Each lurch of the horses feet tugged on the rope and sent the tooth slipping in his hands. It cut into his flesh over and over until the rope was stained red with his blood. He kept his hands as low as he could and tried to shield the sight with his furs.

Eventually they entered another forest, this one less dense than the first. The trees would not provide as much cover when he ran, but they would do better than the open plain.

The men were slowing down, looking for a place to stop and eat a little. Aquila had started limping a good while back and though he said nothing, it was clear he needed to rest. Perhaps infection had set in.

This was Liathan's chance. When they were distracted with making camp and taking out their food, he would run. He waited until the horse stopped, waited until Esca was attending to Aquila, his hand resting lightly on the Roman's shoulder, their heads inclined towards each other.

Liathan tugged his hands sharply, pulling them free of the final loops of rope. The slickness of blood on his skin helped him slip free. He slapped the horse's rump and spun on his heel, in his haste he stumbled on a stone. Shouts went up behind him. He caught his balance quickly, fear leaping in his chest, and sprinted for the trees.

He heard the horse neigh behind him, heard the men scrambling to calm it, grab their weapons and pursue him. He dared not look. Dared not check over his shoulder to see if Esca had an arrow nocked and was even now letting it fly. The skin on his back itched, waiting for the blow to strike, and his ears were pricked for the whistle of the arrow through the air. But he heard no such thing, and he hit the tree line in seconds.

He could hear them following, thundering through the forest at his heels, shouting in their rhythmic language – most likely commands to spread and cut him off.

He did not know this forest, having passed the edge of his lands with the last mountain, but he knew enough to angle north, to head back towards his home. Of course. That was exactly what they would expect him to do. He sprinted, legs eating the ground beneath him, ignoring the screaming of his muscles. As soon as he was sure he was out of sight, he turned, heading south and away from all that was familiar.

Running soon began to take its toll on his lungs. They weren't entirely recovered from the drowning, and while he'd been able to manage the slower, walking pace, running like this was an entirely different matter.

He slumped against a tree trunk, panting hoarsely. Each breath felt like it was scraping the inside of his lungs red and raw. The pain was starting to slow him down, especially teamed with his exhaustion from the past few days, and his hunger on top of that – the rabbit leg from yesterday felt a whole world away. But he could not stop, could not slow. He pushed himself away from the tree and began a lurching run.

He followed animal tracks that eventually widened out into a clear path – the road south. He followed it until he came to a small clearing. There he paused for a second, tilting his sweating face up towards the sky, the breeze flowing over his skin.

The air was strangely clear of bird calls. No sound but the wind, still whipping the trees into a frenzy. It took a second for him to realise what that meant. The fog of nerves and fear of pursuit making him slow. There was a blood-chilling scream and he spun on his heel, raising his arm to protect his face. A man leapt from the trees down onto him, brandishing a short blade.

Liathan managed to get himself in close enough to block the man's swing, his fist striking his forearm. He grappled, digging his fingers into the other man's tattooed muscles.

The man writhed and shoved, trying to get him to break his hold, but Liathan was stronger and had more practise. He twisted the man over, shoving his shoulder and bringing him round, grabbing at either side of his head and _snapping_ it to the side. The man's neck broke with a heavy crack and the body went limp in his hands.

Liathan had no time to rejoice, another scream came from his left, this one ragged with the edge of grief. Liathan scrambled to pick up the warrior's discarded blade, raising it barely in time and blocking the swing that would have cleaved his face in two.

The second warrior was bigger and heavier. He bore all his weight down on their connected blades, and they were pushed dangerously close to Liathan's face. Liathan kept pushing up, straining against the warrior's strength, and then, at the last moment, he flipped down and to the side, shoving himself through the warrior's legs and bounding upright behind him.

He spun, but again the warrior met him blade to blade. They broke apart, then came together again, blades flashing in the sun. The noise of the fight echoed through the clearing and Liathan spared a second to worry about the noise reaching his pursuers, before the warrior kicked at his legs and Liathan had to focus back on the fight.

They fought fiercely, well matched, the warrior's size against Liathan's nimble speed. But Liathan was tired already, where the warrior was fresh, and Liathan's grip was soon soaked with blood from the cuts he'd made escaping his ropes.

Liathan was slightly slow in meeting the next strike, his tired feet slipping and making him stumble. He scrambled backwards, bringing his blade up and turning the next away from him. He was no longer attacking, all his focus on blocking and blocking, keeping his feet steady.

The warrior pushed him back across the clearing, gaining on him step by step. Each strike harder as he sensed his victory until finally he smashed down, the clashing impact reverberating all the way up Liathan's blade and along his arm to his shoulder. He stumbled back, his foot catching on a gnarled root, and fell heavily to the ground. The warrior kicked hard at his elbow and Liathan's arm went dead, losing his grip on the sword. The warrior was raising his own blade for the final blow and Liathan could do nothing but watch it fall.

There was a high pitched whistle, and the warrior halted, staring in comical surprise at the feathered shaft sticking out from his chest. Another whistle and a second arrow was lodged in his throat.

The warrior inhaled wetly, and coughed, blood leaking from his lips, and then, like a felled tree, he began to fall slowly to the ground, crashing backwards. His body twitched and groaned in its death throes and Liathan stared in shock.

He scrambled away, pushing himself to his feet and grabbing the sword with his other hand, his weakened one still limp at his side. Esca stepped from the tree line, feathered arrow nocked, the point aimed towards Liathan.

They didn't speak, Liathan stared wide eyed at his unlikely saviour. Esca's face hard, he spared a glance for the warrior Liathan had already killed, another for the man he'd brought down with his arrows, then looked back at Liathan. They stared at each other silently, the birds still holding back their calls, the only sound the hissing of the wind through the trees.

Then Esca did something Liathan did not expect. He lowered his bow, pointing it down at the ground.

"Go."

Liathan stared at him in surprise.

" _Go,_ " Esca repeated, jerking his head to the side.

Liathan did not move, waiting for the trick, for the bow to come swinging back up and the arrow to fly into his heart. But Esca did nothing, just stood there, a strange, pleading light in his eyes.

"Go, Liathan."

The use of his name startled him into moving and he edged around the body, not wanting to turn his back on Esca. He glanced quickly at the trees, then back, hesitating. Esca jerked his head again.

"Why?" Liathan asked, his voice hoarse.

Esca rolled his eyes in exasperation. "You want to talk now?"

"Why are you letting me go?" Liathan insisted, stubbornly.

Esca sighed. "I didn't bargain with Marcus for your life only for you to waste it as a slave. Go."

Liathan took a step towards the trees, then stopped again. This time not thinking of Esca, but of himself, his people. The dead. What was he going back to? He was shamed. He had led his warriors, not to victory as his father had, but defeat. He had not died honourably, fighting his enemies, as his brother had, but been taken captive by them. He would return empty handed and alone. He would bring home only shame.

He stared blankly at the trees. Surely freedom was better than nothing? Surely there would be some way... His grief weighted down his feet and he could not take another step, his entire body heavy as if turned to stone

"In the name of the Gods, Liathan will you go?" Esca said harshly, from behind him. And Liathan dragged his heavy feet, finally heeding his order... only to see a Roman step out into the clearing.

Another followed close behind, this one armed with a bow and arrow like Esca. But unlike Esca, his was pointed at Liathan.

The Romans were breathing heavily, as if they had only just arrived. Perhaps drawn by the earlier clash of blades. They spoke to Esca in their own tongue as Liathan scanned the tree line, he could still make a run for it, could still-

The Roman with the arrow raised his bow. "Don't even think about it," he said, his words accented heavily, but still understandable. Liathan held himself still. "Drop the blade," the Roman ordered, and when Liathan did not comply, he drew the string of the bow back even further, sighting down the arrow.

Still Liathan held on. He saw now, he had nothing to go home to, nothing to run to. Better to be dead than so shamed.

He heard the crack of twigs directly behind him and his muscles twitched in surprise, but he was too slow to turn, Esca had his wrist, twisting and breaking his grip on the blade with smooth, practised movements. He placed a hand on his shoulder and pushed him down, and Liathan, the fight finally going out of him, let himself be borne to his knees.

He heard Esca's indrawn breath as he circled and brought Liathan's hands together, felt the stroke of his thumb over his cut and bloodied palms. Then Esca was binding a rope around his arms, lashing them together tightly and pulling him up to his feet. Liathan kept his head down, his gaze on the ground.

They left the clearing, the Romans went first, Liathan next, Esca walking behind. He kept his hand on him, on his shoulder, slipping to his back or resting between his shoulder blades. He let Esca push him into the centre of the group, well guarded from running again. The Romans' eyes were wide, their hands moving often to check their blades, settling on the pommels of their swords, or the strings of their bows.

Aquila sat on the ground, his leg stretched out before him. The dressing was clean, he must have replaced it himself while the others searched for Liathan. He asked Esca a question, gaze flicking to Liathan, then back. Esca withdrew his hand from Liathan's shoulder and the cold pressed in on that patch of skin.

Esca answered Aquila's questions steadily, and since there was no uproar or anger, Liathan assumed he kept what he had said to him a secret. He didn’t know why Esca had given him that chance, still wasn't sure that it hadn't all been an elaborate trick. But the weight of his lost escape was lying too heavily on his shoulders, and he couldn't spare the energy to decipher Esca's strange loyalties.

Liathan lost track of time, sitting there wrapped in his own misery, and he started when Esca appeared in front of him. Esca waited for him to meet his eyes. "I'm going to see to your hands. Will you let me?" Liathan stared at him. What did he want? Reassurance he wouldn't kill him? How could he kill him? He had no weapon and Esca was better than him at wrestling.

Perhaps Esca read his confusion as agreement, for he shuffled around behind him and began fiddling with the rope, Liathan soon felt it loosen and release. He looked up. The Romans were standing about, keeping watch, but Aquila was looking straight at him. Liathan's heart thumped heavily behind his ribs.

Esca moved round to his front, blocking his view of Aquila. He brought Liathan's arms up into his lap, and began to take strips of cloth, the same he used for Aquila's leg, washed and cleaned and cut up smaller. He began to clean, then bind Liathan's hands.

Liathan winced slightly as Esca's ministrations irritated the cuts, but they were not deep enough to cause real trouble, they would just pull and irritate as they slowly healed. Liathan watched Esca work for a while, then, speaking quietly so that the words would reach Esca's ears alone, he asked, "Did you tell him?" Esca glanced up at Liathan from under his brows, a sharp look before dropping his gaze. He did not reply straight away, releasing the hand and taking the other, beginning to clean the blood carefully.

"Tell him what?"

Liathan scowled. "You know what."

Esca sighed. "I did not tell him."

Liathan looked over Esca's head at Aquila. He was looking at Esca now, a tiny smile in his eyes and the slight hitch of his lips. Liathan looked back at Esca, his head bent over Liathan's hands so all he could see was the mop of his hair and the curve of one ear.

"Will you?" he asked.

Esca finished with the other hand raised his head, his face smooth and blank once more, no hint of the emotion he had shown in the clearing. He stared at Liathan, his gaze running over his face. "Perhaps," he said. He drew Liathan's hands together and tied them again at the arms, well above the dressings on his hands.

He rose and walked back to Aquila. They traded a few words, and then Aquila was commanding the Romans to break camp. They shuffled around, Aquila going to the horse, Esca making his hands into a step that he might leap into the saddle. The packs were removed and distributed between the others.

Liathan was bound again by rope to the horse and they began to move through the woods.

This time Liathan did not search for an escape. Did not watch the Romans move and catalogue their weaknesses, or the best moment to run. There was nothing to run to. He had lost himself his place in his clan, and Esca had taken from him his chance at death.

He stared at the back of Esca's head as they travelled, occasionally the line of his profile when Esca turned to look, or talk with Aquila. He did not understand him, this traitor who offered him freedom, who broke every bond of honour, but to whom he now owed his life.

**

They continued to journey towards the wall. The Romans stowed their armour in the packs, and together they looked much like any other travelling party. When set upon by bandits, they and Esca dispatched any would be attackers easily, but for the most part they avoided any people they saw.

They kept a slow but steady pace, Aquila varying between walking and riding to rest his leg. The walking sections gradually growing longer as it healed, Esca's skill clearly saving the Roman from any infection.

He saw too, to Liathan's hands and in a couple of days the wounds were closed and the bindings taken off.

Liathan was plagued by nightmares, each time waking sharply into the darkness. Esca was not always on watch, and when he was he made no movement, and no mention of it the day after. Since the Romans and Aquila failed to even give him strange looks, Liathan assumed he was silent when re-living the distorted memories, and he was glad that at least he did not attract any special attention on top of his suffering.

The dreams cast a grey shadow on the days that followed and Liathan was reminded of them at odd moments -- the sound of the wind through the trees, the sensation of water as he swallowed it down.

Despite his melancholy, Liathan found himself watching the changed scenery with interest. The settlements here were larger, trading towns placed squarely on crossroads or fords.

Liathan, with his skin free of woad and his headdress lost, attracted no particular attention, in fact, as they grew closer to the wall and finally joined the main road, he saw many walking similar to him. Slaves tied behind livestock, tied loosely in single file, or piled beside each other in a cart.

The sight sparked uncomfortable thoughts and he began to seriously consider his plight. Esca had persuaded Aquila to spare him and take him as a slave. Liathan had understood this from the first moment, from the second he saw Aquila's face change, back at the site of the battle. But despite the knowledge, he hadn't fully allowed himself to believe it.

He'd been taken in a fair fight, Aquila had held him down and choked the life from him. It seemed fitting then that his second chance at life would be also at Aquila's hands.

The debt of honour that Aquila had invoked for killing his father was balanced. They had fought and Aquila had won. The Gods had spoken. He thought perhaps he should hate Aquila a little more for what he'd done. But he could not find it in himself to mourn his father as he had his brother, despite the painful symmetry of both their deaths -- at the hands of Romans, for the sake of the eagle.

Consumed by his thoughts, it took him a while to notice the gradual swell of people on the road South. Donkey and oxen carts eventually replacing those pulled by men, horses replacing men on foot. As the number of people increased, so too did the noise of talk and movement. Stalls began to line the sides of the road, food sellers and craftsmen hawking their wares. Trade was done between travellers on the road as they walked, money and goods exchanging hands.

A short man, face almost entirely eaten by his wiry beard, split from his cart and came alongside Aquila, on the horse, and Esca, walking beside him.

He greeted them, raising his hand to catch Aquila's attention.

Liathan felt a bolt of fear. He may care little for Aquila, but if he was exposed as a Roman things would not go well for any of them.

Aquila simply nodded and smiled, however, before turning back to the road, and Esca intercepted neatly, drawing the man back a little way from the horse. As they came closer to Liathan he began to make out their words.

"-is weary from the travel, tell me, how can I help you, sir?"

The man smiled, the movement shifting his beard but not reaching his eyes, which scanned their small group quickly. "Oh simply some talk between fellow travellers. I have come recently from the east, I bring much news..." He proceeded to elaborate on news of the clans, the different bonds of war and of peace. He inclined his head towards Esca, waving his hands as he talked, as if sketching the picture in the air. But his eyes strayed to Aquila, the horse, the Romans and Liathan, never alighting too long on any of them. Esca nodded, feigning attention, though Liathan was not sure how much he was actually retaining, and how much he was trying to think of an excuse to send the man away.

"But tell me, young sir," the man said, suddenly turning to pin Esca with a look from under bushy brows. "How far have you travelled? I see there is dust and mud on your boots and on your cloak."

Liathan was listening close now, wanting to hear what Esca would tell him.

"We have been travelling a long time. It is true." He nodded slowly, running a hand through his dusty hair. "My foster-brother is getting married." He nodded towards Aquila. "The ceremony is to take place in the lands of my people, and that of his wife. We are his honour guard, his uncles." He gestured towards the others. "Myself, and his slave."

The man nodded, digesting this information. Then he glanced at Liathan and Liathan tensed at the sharpness of his gaze, stumbling a little. The man looked back at Esca.

"His slave. Indeed. Has he served him long?"

Esca shook his head. "No, not long."

"Hmm." The man nodded. "A fine specimen, won in battle I assume?" And he looked again, this time his gaze lingering on Liathan's long legs and muscled arms.

"Yes," said Esca, shortly.

"Unusual gift for a bride," The man said lightly. "Unless you intended to trade him for something more... suitable? I notice you are travelling light." And his eyes flicked over their group again.

Liathan tensed, but managed this time, to keep his walk steady. It was true, for a wedding envoy, they were travelling _very_ light.

Esca shook his head sharply, obviously realising the flaw in his lie as well. "No," he replied. "The slave holds some significance for my clan. He will be well received. "

The man nodded. "Ah, revenge is it? Well." He walked silently for a couple of paces. "Still..." He glanced up at Aquila. Liathan, familiar now with his usual seat on the horse, could see the difference, the tension in the way he held himself. He would be asking Esca for a full account of the conversation when they stopped.

Liathan tried to imagine what it would be like across the wall, in the land of the Romans, surrounded by conversations he could not understand. By people he could not understand.

The man began speaking again. "If your brother happens to change his mind, I have a fine stock of slaves brought in from my travels." He gestured back towards his cart. "Well trained, no captured warriors here." He laughed brashly, and Esca's lips rose in a starchy smile.

"Young, biddable. Well trained. Look for me at the inn in the next town, I stay two days before crossing the wall to trade with the Roman invaders." He spat on the ground perfunctorily.

Esca nodded stiffly. "Of course."

The man smiled genially again, and with a final lingering look at Liathan, he moved back to his own cart.

Liathan shrugged his shoulders, but the sensation of the man's look stayed with him long after he had disappeared into the crowd.

Eventually, as the sun sunk low into the sky and began to bleed orange into the clouds, Aquila called a halt. They continued a little way away from the road, enough to give them privacy to hold their own conversations, and Aquila dismounted, his steps sure, his leg causing him little trouble.

The Romans took the opportunity to rest, settling on the ground, one taking out some hard biscuits and sharing them between them.

Liathan squatted on the ground behind the horse, enjoying the pull of his muscles as he shifted his position. The familiar ache from a long time spent walking. He wished he could massage his calves, use his hands to ease the ache, but he settled for bending and stretching his legs out as best he could.

Esca and Aquila were talking, Esca's face betraying his nerves for once. He gave the road behind them sharp looks every so often. Aquila seemed intent on something, gesturing with open palms. Liathan watched them as they talked, trying to decipher their body language, Esca closed off, Aquila open. Persuading him of something then.

It was strange, they acted almost like the lie of foster-brothers was true. When Aquila gave orders to his Romans he did not wait to see them carried out, he knew they would be. But with Esca, he _asked._

How had they two become equals? What bargain had they struck?

Liathan glanced at the packs piled on the horse. The bulky shape of the eagle, swaddled in cloth.

Had they agreed to seek the eagle together? But why would a Mac Cunoval aid a Roman to steal the Eagle? It made no sense. He kicked at the ground angrily. Esca made no sense. Aquila was at least, simple. He came for the eagle, he took the eagle. Liathan rocked back to sit squarely on the ground, stretching his legs out in front of him. And not only that, he gained a slave as well. A _fine specimen,_ Liathan sighed.

Perhaps that was what they argued about. Aquila trying to persuade Esca to sell him off. An unnecessary weight. Esca had said he convinced Aquila to spare his life. It would make sense then for Aquila to want to be rid of him. Perhaps his time spent pretending to be a slave had left a bad taste in his mouth. Perhaps he wanted no reminders of all the fetching and carrying and following orders.

Liathan imagined being sold to the bearded man, remembering his intrusive gaze. He set aside his own unease. The man was just a trader, he'd sell him on to someone else, another clan, or, he said he was going over the wall. He'd sell him to another Roman perhaps.

Liathan winced, would that fate truly be better than the one he had now? He didn't know. The knowledge that he could not go back did not make the thought of his future any more palatable.

Aquila and Esca split apart, and Aquila roused the Romans. They began to walk again, back towards the road, A little while later a town appeared on the horizon, a dark smudge against the sunset, slowly growing larger as the light failed. They arrived just as the last rays were failing, the watchmen restless as night approached.

The town was larger than any Liathan had seen before, wooden walls, tall as a man, and mud brick buildings slumped together within.

The central square was sanded and almost clear of stalls, trading ended with the sunset. Some few traders were still packing up their wares, catching the last of the buyers.

One of the Romans moved to the front, clearly more familiar with the town, and he led them down the streets to a large building. Aquila dismounted and stayed with the horse, sending Esca in with the Roman to secure lodging.

Aquila and the other Romans did not speak, the stream of people in and out of the inn were enough to keep their Roman tongues still in their mouths. Liathan was gripped with a sudden mad urge to shout out, _Romans, here! These men are Romans!_ But he blamed the thought on fatigue and bit his tongue. Aquila gave him an odd look when he saw Liathan's sharp grin, and Liathan turned away, dropping his eyes until he could control his face.

Presently Esca came out with a boy. They divided the packs between them, Aquila lifting the wrapped eagle carefully from the horse and hooking it under his arm. The boy led the horse away to the stables, and they made for the doorway and the light spilling out from it.

Inside, the innkeeper was standing, tunic stretched tight around his fat middle, his head balding and shiny with sweat.

The heat was suffocating, a roaring fire in the hearth, and the inn was full to bursting. There was a chair set in the corner and a bard sat singing with a reedy voice, his eyes glazed white and blind. Beside him, on the floor, a youth plucked her harp in time with his voice, her thick hair piled into braids around her head.

The innkeeper bellowed a name over the din, and a serving woman split from the crowd, carrying an empty jug of ale in her hands.

"See to these men, they'll take the rooms upstairs."

She nodded, passing the jug over to him, and running her hands through her dark hair. She smiled prettily, if a little wearily and beckoned for them to follow. She turned and sidestepped as a man left off from listening to the bard and made for the door. His steps were made clumsy by drink and as he passed them he stumbled and fell, crashing into Liathan.

Here misfortune struck, and later Liathan would lay the blame solely at the feet of that twice damned eagle.

Liathan, whose hands were still tied, stumbled, unable to catch himself, and knocked into Aquila, like a line of game pieces stacked in a row. Aquila's leg, which had until that moment been masquerading as healthy, suddenly buckled and Aquila fell, his hands jerking upwards, his grip on the eagle loosening and the cloth covering it slipped, exposing the curve of its golden head.

Liathan allowed himself to fall fully to the floor, knocking the eagle from Aquila's hands and covering the hateful thing with his body.

He remained on the floor, using his furs to shield his movements as he pulled the cloth covering back over the eagle's head.

A moment later he was being pulled roughly to his feet. Aquila took the bundle from him, pressing close enough that Liathan could smell the salt of his sweat, before stepping back.

Esca was shouting after the drunk man to mind where he went, and when the man showed little notice of him, he rounded on the innkeeper. Who was staring at the bundle Aquila was gripping, a glittering light in his eyes.

Liathan swallowed against the sudden lump in his throat. He dared not let the innkeeper see the fear in his face and he turned away, catching Aquila's eyes, wide and as white as his own.

Esca had them hustled after the serving girl within moments, and they did not speak until in their rooms, the Romans taking one, himself, Esca, Aquila taking the one opposite.

Their room was simple, the only light came from the fire in the hearth, flames settling in to suck away at the wood. There was a low pallet beside the fire, a larger bed in the centre of the room, and a small table in the corner.

Liathan looked straight at Esca. "The innkeeper saw," he spoke before they could, voice rough with nerves.

Esca pressed his lips into a bloodless line.

Aquila spoke then, and Esca nodded at him, waving a hand at Liathan and replying in kind.

Aquila glanced his way, speaking in his tongue and Esca translated. "He says thank you for your quick thinking in covering the eagle."

Liathan shrugged, glancing over at Aquila, then back at Esca, uncomfortable with the look in Aquila's eyes.

"If a thief is willing to slit one throat, he's willing to slit more. I did it to protect myself."

Esca raised an eyebrow, but translated all the same. Of course, Liathan had no way of knowing what he was translating, but since Aquila sent him a mirror of Esca's look a second later, he guessed Esca had translated honestly.

Liathan scowled. He _could_ have been acting selfishly. Their time spent with his people had not been long enough for them to truly know him.

Aquila asked something and Esca replied before turning to Liathan. "You saw his face, do you think he will attack us for it?"

Liathan shrugged, still angry from before. "Who can predict the actions of a man without honour." Esca's face went blank, and Liathan ignored the snap of disappointment in his chest. Aquila spoke sharply, Liathan recognised the cadence, and he thought he recognised the shape of the words -- _What did he say?_ Esca shrugged, not taking his eyes from Liathan and replied in a monotone, far fewer words than Liathan had said. Aquila looked between them, a frown between his lines, but he didn't press.

Aquila spoke a while longer with Esca, Esca pointing at the door, then both of them looking over at Liathan for a second, who controlled the urge to shuffle his feet under the sudden scrutiny. Esca walked over to the door. "I'm going to get us food," he told Liathan. "I won't be long." And then he was gone, Liathan and Aquila left alone together for the first time since the battle.

Liathan stood awkwardly by the fire, staring at the door, watching Aquila move about the room from the corner of his eyes. He was limping still, clearly the tumble had pulled some muscle in his leg and re-awoken the injury. Eventually Aquila stopped and Liathan could feel the sensation of his gaze as it travelled over him.

"Liathan."

Liathan turned at the sound of his name. Aquila was standing by the bed. He gestured for Liathan to come to him.

Liathan moved, walking slowly until he was a pace away, Aquila gestured for Liathan to sit on the bed, and Liathan moved jerkily around Aquila to sit.

His limbs were filling up with tension and his body began to flicker with energy at finding himself so close to the man who had almost killed him.

Aquila reached for his belt and took out a knife, the blade sharp. He brought it close to Liathan and Liathan tensed even further. Would Aquila kill him now? Take advantage of Esca's absence? He could blame it on Liathan, tell Esca he tried to run. Tried to break free, attack Aquila. Self defence.

Liathan dragged his gaze from the blade to Aquila's face. It was as unreadable as Esca's ever was. He raised the knife and Liathan could feel his pulse beating in his throat. Everything focused down to the point of that blade. The flickering shadows the flames threw against the wall seemed to slow their dance. He could run. He could attack. He could break honour and kill his master.

The thought roiled in his belly. The word settling weirdly into place between his bones. _Master_. He was a slave, taken honestly and fairly in battle. It all came down to that one question, that knife edge, did he accept with honour, or fight without. His heart beat heavily and memory placed a palm over his chest.

He tiled up his chin, baring his throat without breaking Aquila's gaze.

Aquila smiled grimly, and nodded slightly to himself. The blade flashed, moving swiftly downwards... and sliced through the bindings on Liathan's hands.

There was a second of silence, then Liathan exhaled roughly. His chest rose and fell rapidly and he stared at Aquila in mute surprise.

" _Slave._ "

Liathan recognised the Roman word.

" _Slave,_ " Aquila said again. And this time Liathan understood. He nodded, swallowing roughly.

" _Slave,_ " he repeated, the word feeling heavy and strange in his mouth.

**

Aquila stood and looked down at Liathan. He dropped his hands to the bed, clenching his fingers in the covers, uneasy under Aquila's stare.

He heard the creak of steps outside and there was a knock on the door.

Aquila opened his mouth, then grimacing, closed it and walked to the door, pulling it open a little to look out, and then wider to let Esca in.

Esca had a tray in his hands -- a jug, a bowl and a hunk of bread. He carried it over to the table, glancing between them both and at the loops of rope that had slipped to the floor by Liathan's feet.

He deposited the tray on the table and Aquila pushed the door shut. Liathan stayed sitting uncomfortably on the bed. Esca looked between them again, then walked to the hearth, squatting to stoke the fire. He began to speak over his shoulder to Aquila.

Liathan stood abruptly and walked to the table.

He could feel their eyes on his back. He took a bowl and filled it. Then he turned, his eyes lowered, and walked jerkily towards Aquila. He held out the bowl. Aquila did not move. Liathan's skin crawled. He glanced up from under his brows, then began to lower himself to one knee.

Aquila's hand shot forward, his fingers closing around Liathan's elbow. The bowl was knocked to the side, a little soup spilling to splash over the floor. Liathan felt the grip through the layers of his clothes, the solid strength of Aquila's hand, thick fingers wrapped tight around Liathan's more slender limb.

Liathan hunched his shoulders, the blood rushing to his cheeks. Aquila barked out a question, still gripping Liathan's arm. There was a pause, then Esca translated.

"What are you doing?"

Liathan looked up at a him. "I'm his slave." He dropped his eyes, unable to hold Esca's gaze.

Esca translated and Aquila released his arm suddenly, the movement so abrupt that Liathan jerked, soup again spilling over the side of the bowl.

There was a knock on the door, Aquila hesitated, then finally went to answer, letting the Romans in once they identified themselves.

They did not seem to notice the tension in the room, and began to talk to Aquila in low voices. He glanced at Esca, then allowed himself to be drawn away to the side of the room. Liathan stood stock still, his grip on the bowl white knuckled. Esca approached him slowly.

"You don't have to serve him."

"That's what a slave _does,_ " Liathan replied, between grit teeth.

Esca shook his head, then nodded, frowning. "Yes, but..." He glanced at Aquila over his shoulder. "Its not necessary now, not while we're travelling," he said finally, decisively. "When we get over the wall..." He sighed and looked at Liathan.

Liathan couldn't deal with the pity in his gaze.

"Then what am I supposed to do?" he hissed, hands itching for the familiarity of a weapon.

Aquila had claimed him, had taken that knife and sliced through his ropes. His heart was still drumming from the shock of it. He didn't know what was expected of him. What a Roman slave's duties might be. All he knew was how to be a warrior for his clan. And that was the one thing he could never again be.

"I cannot- What am I supposed- " He jerked his head to the side, cursing. And then he turned away from Esca, walking back to the table. He poured the soup back into the jug and put the bowl back on the tray with ill-grace, only just stopping himself from slamming it down like a child in a tantrum.

Esca was still looking at him when he turned around.

"Marcus," Esca called without turning. He gestured between him and Liathan and pointed to the door, speaking in the Roman tongue. Then glanced over his shoulder at Aquila for his reply.

Aquila looked hard at Liathan, then nodded abruptly.

"Come," Esca said to Liathan."We will go down to the common room to eat."

Liathan followed Esca out. And when he drew close Esca spoke, inclining his head towards him and lowering his voice. "We will attract less attention. Marcus would have to sit without speaking, and the others speak with accents, this way we can keep an eye on the innkeeper." He glanced up at Liathan. "Unless you would rather stay in the room?"

Liathan looked at Esca in disbelief. Stay in the room? He'd be glad never to have to enter it again. He saw Esca was wearing a small, teasing smile and the sight of it irritated him, turning his lingering embarrassment into anger.

"Is he your master?" He blurted out.

Esca's smile dropped off. "No." He shook his head.

Liathan halted. "Then I don't understand. Why are you with him? It makes no sense." He remembered asking a similar question before, sitting beside the fire with Esca and his father.

Esca pulled him into the shadow of the common room door, glancing around them quickly. "I was his slave," Esca replied, moving right in close and breathing the words into the air between them. "He set me free."

"When?" Liathan pressed, staring down into Esca's eyes.

"After we took the eagle."

"Stole the eagle," Liathan corrected.

Esca dropped his eyes. "Yes."

"Why did he free you? For helping him? For protecting him in my home?" He pushed Esca's hands off him. "You told me you tricked him into taking you across the wall, but that was a lie. You tricked m- us, not him."

His vice was climbing and Esca shoved him back against the wall again. " _Shhhh._ We mustn't attract attention."

Liathan glanced around sharply, The serving girl glanced up from pouring ale at a table by the door, and he smiled stiffly at her over Esca's shoulder. She raised an eyebrow at the sight of them pressed close to each other, and the corner of her mouth twitched in a smile.

"Yes, it was a lie."

Liathan looked back at Esca sharply.

"I didn't set out to trick you. I didn't know your people would find us, or that you would have the eagle. I didn't-" He shook his head and released his grip on Liathan's furs, stepping away from him. "What's done is done. Will you come with me and eat, or would you rather return to the room?"

Liathan pulled his tunic straight, then pushed away from the wall, gesturing exaggeratedly for Esca to precede him.

In the common room the youth was still playing the harp, but the bard had stopped singing and was drinking at a table in the corner. The swell of people had thinned a little, those remaining sat at the tables, nodding their heads to the music.

Esca hailed the serving girl and got them two bowls of soup and a hunk of bread. Liathan dug in gratefully.

"How are your hands?" Esca asked after a little while had passed.

"Fine." Liathan's grip tightened on his bread.

"May I?" Esca asked, reaching forward. After a second Liathan dropped the bread and extended his hands, palms up.

Esca traced the fine red lines with a fingertip, all that was left of the cuts. The feel of Esca's calloused fingers made his skin tingle.

Esca nodded. "Good." He released him and Liathan drew his hands back. He rubbed the sensation from his skin and picked up his bread, breaking off a chunk and raising it to his lips.

They ate and watched the others in the common room. The innkeeper didn't seem to be paying them any special attention and Liathan began to relax, nodding his head to the music. If he tried he could almost pretend he was back home, singing around the fire with his family. He hummed along, recognising the tune, and fitting the words to it gradually. He began to sing quietly, his voice pleasant and clear.

He let his eyes fall shut, losing himself in the song and he did not realise how quiet the space around him had grown until he came to the end. There was a sudden flurry of applause and he jerked his eyes open, flushing. Half the people in the room were clapping and the harp player raised her instrument in a salute from across the room.

Liathan raised his hand awkwardly.

"Strange way of not attracting attention," Esca said wryly, and Liathan felt his face heat, missing the stiff blue of his mask more than ever.

The clapping gradually subsided, and another song begun. For a second Liathan thought that would be the end of it, that the Gods had chosen to smile on them for once.

No such luck.

A heavy hand alighted on his shoulder.

"Well, if it isn't the young sir and his brother's slave."

Liathan turned his head sharply. The slave trader from the road stood looking down at them, his thick beard looking even bigger from this angle. Liathan shifted in his seat and the man's grip tightened painfully on his shoulder for a second before releasing.

"I see now why you would not part with him."

Liathan turned to Esca, but his face was a polite mask once more. He dropped his eyes to the tabletop.

"A voice like, that... well..." The trader sighed.

Esca nodded and made to rise, but the trader intercepted, "No, no, I shan't keep you long, wanting to get back to you brother I'm sure." He paused. "Where is he now?" He asked, voice deceptively light.

Esca hesitated and Liathan glanced up at him, and, perhaps Liathan was learning to read his mask, for he was sure Esca was searching for a lie and coming up blank. "He was weary from travel," Esca replied finally. "He is resting."

"Ah yes, a good place to rest, this. I have stayed here many a time." And he waved a hand to catch the innkeeper's attention. Liathan saw the innkeeper's face split into a smile as he recognised the trader and Liathan's stomach lurched. Then the innkeeper saw who the trader was standing next to, his eyes flickering over Liathan's face and the back of Esca's head. His gaze sharpened and Liathan cursed. He had been too quick to relax. The innkeeper clearly had not forgotten them. Now he would ask the trader for news and they would exchange knowledge of their suspiciously light wedding envoy... and their suspiciously shiny belongings.

The trader left them to go to his friend, and Liathan and Esca, in silent agreement, stood and made for the door.

"We should leave." Liathan said as they approached the room. Esca halted outside.

"Now? After taking up two rooms and eating and drinking and _singing?_ " He gave Liathan a derisive look. "It would look suspicious. And where would we go? This is the only inn in town."

"We could sleep outside." Liathan insisted, an ugly knot of worry in his chest.

"The town has closed the gates. If we leave now there will be questions, only thieves creep away in darkness."

Liathan clenched his fists. "If we do not go it will be thieves creeping into our rooms tonight!"

Esca nodded sharply. " _I know._ "

The door snapped open and Aquila's face appeared, raising an eyebrow at Liathan, who realised the noise they were making. Esca raised a hand and nodded in wordless apology. They entered and Liathan felt the awkwardness from before settle over him.

Esca looked between him and Aquila, and rolled his eyes. He began speaking rapidly to Aquila, pointing to the door, to Liathan, to the eagle. Liathan watched him explaining the situation, and eventually Aquila began to reply.

Liathan's inability to understand anything more than the basic outline of the conversation frustrated him, and he turned away, busying himself with sorting the bedding for his pallet. After a second, and after glancing at the other two to see they were both still conversing, he readied the blankets on the bed as well. Then he returned to the pallet and sat cross-legged on it, letting the fire warm his back

Eventually Esca and Aquila stopped talking, both their movements' stiff, showing their dissatisfaction with their circumstances.

"We will leave before dawn. Before it is light, when everyone is still asleep," Esca said, glancing between Liathan and the bed. He raised an eyebrow, but made no mention of Liathan's work. Still, Liathan was filled with unease and he began to second guess what he'd done.

Did Esca expect him to fight against this? _Should_ he be fighting it? Forced into follow orders instead of trying, awkwardly, to anticipate? Liathan stretched out on the pallet, trying to put the questions from his mind.

Esca and Aquila climbed into the bed, talking in low voices for a while before subsiding into silence.

Liathan wrapped himself in his furs and the blanket. The heat was strange and stifling after so many nights spent outside. Despite the comfort, he could not sleep. Instead he drifted off into a half dream, jerking back into wakefulness when one of the others rolled over and spoke in their sleep, or when a log slipped in the fire.

Eventually he managed to fall into a fitful doze, and his dreams began to wind themselves about him again.

 _He saw the room, but the light was not the flickering yellow of the fire, it was the crispness of daylight streaming in from above. There was no roof, only air. It was fresh and full of the promise of snow._

 _He sat by the fire, his furs and blanket were gone, his skin pale and white. He was a boy again, free of paint. His hair was long and brushed the tips of his ears as he turned his head._

 _By the door stood a great hound, its fur, pale white. It looked down at him sternly, the clean arch of its neck was smooth and straight._

 _He felt small._

 _The hound moved towards him. It grew brighter as it came until its skin became indistinct, its form dissolving into brilliance._

 _He heard his grandmother's voice. "The hound, Liathan, is the guardian of the clan's honour." He was at home, sitting by the hearth, watching his grandmother stir a great cast iron pot, the wrinkled lines of her face shifting as she spoke. "The white hound lives in all of us." She pressed her gnarled hand to his chest, her dark eyes piercing him. "In here."_

 _His heart jumped in response to her voice, thumping against his ribs._

 _"Little Liathan, little white hound. Will you carry it for your clan?"_

 _Liathan's voice was strange and high with youth. "Niall will be clan chief after our father. He will carry our honour."_

 _His grandmother smiled, but her eyes were full of tears. "Look." She bent close to Liathan, dry lips skating the curve of his ear. "Look," she said, pointing up at the sky. There was a flash of movement against the white, a flash again and Liathan saw now -- a bird, swirling and diving at a great height. Its wings caught the sunlight and sent it shining back. Its wings were gold. An eagle. It screamed and dived, falling sharply downwards._

 _"Look," his grandmother whispered again and Liathan turned back to her_

 _His grandmother was gone, in her place his brother lay on the ground. Blood was leaking from a wound in his chest, leaking into the freshness of the green grass. "Look little hound, look," he spoke, blood trickling from the corner of his lips._

 _"It comes," he said, raising a wavering hand and gripping Liathan's palm. There was a creak and a thump as the ground they were standing on began to move. Liathan's hands itched, fire crawling underneath the cuts. "It comes," he said again, and it was not Niall, but Aquila, pulling sharply. The creak came again. "It comes!"_

Liathan woke, kicking out with his legs. He'd contorted himself under the covers, and his limbs were tangled in the furs. It took a few moments for him to kick himself free, pulling his thoughts from the snares of the dream as he did so.

He was shivering despite the warmth.

He looked up at the other two, still sleeping. Esca moaned in his sleep, rolling over onto his side. Liathan looked around the room, wondering what it was that had woken him.

He was about to dismiss it as purely the fault of the dream when he heard it, the same creaking noise he'd heard in his dream, as the ground had given way beneath his feet. For a second he stared at the floor, utterly confused, before his sluggish, sleep-stained mind made sense of it.

The wooden floor, creaking. Outside. At the door.

He sprung up silently, kicking his blanket to the side and rushed to the bed. He reached for Esca, who startled awake a second before Liathan's hands touched him. Esca's hand slipped under his pillow and back out in a smooth movement, his blade drawn before he'd even blinked the sleep from his eyes.

Liathan pointed at the door meaningfully and Esca nodded, elbowing Aquila awake and communicating the warning with a look.

A fight inside the room would be suicide, close quarters, with nowhere to lie in wait. And storming out of the door would be just as useless, hacked to death in the hallway.

Liathan scanned the room, some spark of memory from the dream prompting him to look up... _there._

He pointed. Up in the corner of the room the rushes of the roof had become thin and weak, sagging slightly inwards.

He looked back down and met Esca's eyes. Esca nodded and gestured to the table. Between them they carried it carefully over to stand it beneath the roof.

As they passed the door, Liathan heard the low murmur of whispers, and he saw the lock shift slightly. Clearly their attackers had chosen stealth. That would buy them a little more time.

He climbed on top of the table, shoving the rushes with his hands, grimacing at the noise as the rushes bent, then snapped, coming apart in clumps, until, sooner than he expected, he could feel the cold night air against his palms.

He widened the gap as much he could, then looked back down. Esca passed him a pack, waving for him to go. Liathan shook his head, taking the pack, but stepping down. He pointed at Aquila, then at his leg. Esca stared at Liathan, a strange look in his eyes. Then he nodded and turned to Aquila. Aquila crossed his arms, brows drawing down. Esca shoved his shoulder in exasperation pointing up at the roof sharply. Aquila tightened his lips, but nodded. He climbed up onto the table, then scrambled up out of the gap. Liathan winced at the noise, glancing worriedly at the door.

Aquila's hands appeared through the gap in the roof and Liathan passed up the pack, then Esca passed up the other, this one with the eagle wrapped securely within it.

Perhaps Aquila was not expecting it to be so heavy, but truly, Liathan was sure the evil bird was playing with them now, for it slipped in Aquila's hands and thunked heavily against the wall, then the table, and then the floor.

The three of them stilled in shock, then exploded into movement, even as the men behind the door did the same.

Liathan bent and scooped the pack up, slinging it up to Aquila, then he reached forwards and grabbed Esca, lifting him bodily, using his extra height to heave him up out of the hole, his feet barely touching the table.

Then the door was breaking in and Liathan was bounding up. Aquila and Esca grasped his arms as the men ran across the room. He felt the brush of air as a blade passed dangerously close to his flailing legs, and then he was up through the hole and clambering precariously onto the roof.

The night air was cold against his skin after the muggy warmth of the room, and he blinked against the darkness, eyes taking a second to acclimatise.

Esca scrambled forwards in front of him and leapt down to the ground. Liathan grabbed a pack, flinging it down to him. Aquila threw the other at the same time. Then Liathan slid forward to the edge of the roof and leapt off, landing nimbly on his feet. The drop was not long enough to hurt, but the impact was solid, and he felt it up his legs.

He looked up at Aquila, wondering how he would fare with his injured leg, but Aquila was already moving, sliding to the roof edge, then twisting, gripping it with both hands so that his body hung down, from there the drop was halved and he let go, falling the final distance. Still he lurched to the side as he landed, face tightening in pain and Esca rushed to support him.

Liathan grabbed the packs and they moved as quickly as they could down the darkened street. The cries and shouts of pursuit echoing behind them.

Liathan had to slow his pace to stay with the other two, and the slowness had him on edge, wishing he could leave them and sprint off into the darkness. He shifted the packs on his back, eyeing the shadowed darkness of the street, before turning his feet back towards the other two.

They picked a direction at random and set off. The town wasn't big enough to get truly lost in, which excluded the possibility of hiding and lying low. They needed to leave soon, before the entire town was roused and they were pinned within.

Liathan, at the front, was the first to reach the end of the street. It opened into the main square and he skidded to a halt, spinning on his heel. He turned and ran back to Esca and Aquila.

"The centre of the town is that way." He pointed the way he had come. "We need to turn."

He looked beyond them, seeing the lights as their pursuers, now armed with burning torches, began to spill out of the Inn.

They scanned the street frantically.

"There!" Esca said, pointing at the narrow gap between two houses.

Liathan struggled through the passageway, Esca fitting easily, dragging Aquila along beside him. Aquila's face was pale, but he bit down on his lip and made no sound to betray the pain in his leg.

They shuffled along further, edging out into a parallel road as their pursuers began to run up the street they’d just been in. They ducked and held their breath, thanking each of their Gods as the passage they had taken was overlooked.

Then they were up and running again. Liathan reached for Aquila's other arm and they half carried him between them, moving faster this way. Soon they caught sight of the town wall, its dark shape cutting off the street.

They approached the foot of the wall and Esca knelt to make his fingers into a step, as he had when Aquila mounted his horse. Aquila went to leap but his leg buckled before he could, sending him crashing into Liathan. Aquila grunted at the pain, lips pressed tight together until pale and bloodless. Liathan gripped him tightly, keeping him upright, and Aquila's hand remained heavy over his shoulders. Liathan tried to ignore the unsettling feeling at being so close.

"This won't work." He told Esca. "Take him." And he let Esca take Aquila's weight.

Then he took the packs and slung them over the wall, hearing the thump as they landed on the other side. He glanced about as he stripped off his heavy tunic. There was no sight of pursuit yet, but he could hear them shouting nearby.

He bundled his fur in his hands, then, taking one step back, leapt forwards, using his momentum to walk up the wall, and using the furs to protect his hands as he gripped the sharpened stakes at the top.

He took a second to catch his balance, then, settling on the fur, leaned down, reaching for Aquila with both hands.

Between them -- Esca providing a step and Liathan gripping Aquila's hands, they were able to pull him upwards. Aquila gripped Liathan's forearm's strongly. His hair sticking to his forehead at the pain and exertion.

He scrambled up, the stakes ripping his tunic as he dragged himself to the top, and then he was on the furs beside Liathan, turning to lowering himself down the other side in the same way he had on the Inn's roof. The thick muscles of his arms corded and stood out as he swung himself round.

He dropped to the ground and Liathan watched him crumple, wincing at the sight. He glanced back at Esca.

"Go, I'm fine." He waved at Liathan, and Liathan leapt down beside Aquila.

He squatted to check, Aquila was panting, but still conscious, and Liathan raised his head to look out at the land. The tension in his chest eased. They were out of the town now, ahead of their pursuers. No one would follow them out here in the darkness.

The land sloped sharply away from the battlements, then rose smoothly as it entered the woods. The sky was still dark, though the stars provided a muted light.

Liathan glanced abut for the packs, finding them rolled to the bottom of the slope, a little way away. He glanced back at Aquila who had raised himself until he was sitting, back resting against the wall. The faint starlight painted his face strangely, casting the hollows of his eyes into darkness. Liathan felt a sudden bolt of fear at the sight, dream mixing with memory. He remembered seeing Aquila at the river, standing under the eagle. Remembered the men in his dream. Their eyes were shadows.

Aquila's face was angled towards Liathan and after a second he reached out his hand for help standing.

Liathan hesitated. He could run now. Sprint for the trees. There were no ropes on him. No ties to keep him here.

Esca's hands appeared on top of the wall, gripping the furs tightly.

They would be fine together, they had a good hour of darkness to put distance between themselves and the town. He could make for the trees, he could take the road back north. He'd helped them escape, surely that was enough to satisfy honour.

He tensed his legs and time seemed to stretch as it had in the room with Aquila. He stared at him, the way the starlight smeared his face, the steadiness of his palm. He saw, from the corner of his eye, Esca's head appear over the wall, the messy mop of his hair.

And Liathan moved, bounding down the slope, skidding and falling and stumbling back upright. He left the packs where they were and sprinted for the trees, his feet striking the earth hard as his pace lengthened.

He could feel the press of his grandmother's palm against his chest. The skin above his heart felt warm even as the rest of him grew cold without his tunic. But Aquila did not call after him, and Liathan did not look back.

**

He ran, the slope eaten up by his long legs. The trees rose black and tall and he disappeared into them, running, running, as if there were hunters clutching at his heels. He ran to escape the town, to escape the others. But more, he ran to escape his thoughts, and the palm, like a brand, he still felt over his heart.

He caught glimpses of the stars through the branches and unthinkingly used them to orient himself, turning his feet towards the north.

Would they come after him? He glanced over his shoulder, seeing nothing but shadowy trees. At any moment he expected the sky to split, and the hound from his dream to leap down onto him and give chase. He could almost hear it, snapping and snarling behind him, biting down at the ragged dregs of his honour.

He pushed himself to run, brambles scraping at his legs. Despite his missing tunic, he soon grew hot, flushed and heavy with shame and exhaustion. The lingering tiredness from his broken nights and the days spent travelling began to make itself known.

He ran on and on until his limbs were shaking, his mind clearing of anything but the urgent need to keep moving, to flee and flee and run until he could run no more. His steps grew uneven, the undergrowth seeming to grow more tangled, clawing at his feet.

His run became a lurching walk, his heart beating heavily, drawing painful breaths in and out from his lungs. Eventually he gave in to exhaustion and halted, reaching out to steady himself against a tree trunk.

The sky through the trees was not so black as before, a greyish tinge beginning to stain it -- dawn approaching slowly. The birds were shouting out their greetings in a great cacophony of cries.

His legs gave out and he slid down to sit on the ground, leaves and twigs crackling underneath him. He was so tired. Not just his limbs, but his organs, his mind, his heart. He rested his arms on his knees, hands dangling, and lowered his head.

What was he doing?

He saw Aquila in his mind's eye, sitting with his back to the wall. What if he was wrong? What if they had not escaped? What if Aquila's leg had caused him too much pain? Would he have stayed behind and demanded Esca leave him? Would Esca have heeded the order? Liathan thought not. He felt an ugly flash of shame.

Had he abandoned them to their deaths? With his help they could have carried Aquila into the trees, could have escaped as he had. Was the loss of their lives on his conscience? What would the Gods do with him now?

He turned his head up and rested it on the trunk, looking through the branches as they waved and shifted in the breeze, revealing patches of sky between their tangled fingers.

He should not have run.

He should have stayed. He should have ignored that snake voice that told him to flee, that made him recall the embarrassment of his attempt to serve Aquila. He'd sworn. Not in so many words, maybe, but by implication. Sitting on the bed before Aquila. He'd known in his heart what it meant.

A slave was not without honour. He knew that. He should have stayed.

He raised his hands to his face, scrubbing his palms over his features, noting again the clean smoothness of his skin. He ran his hand over his head. He could feel the itchiness of new growth, lingering under his scalp.

What was he thinking, going north? He was no longer a warrior of the Seal People. No longer the Chief's son, nor his grandmother's little hound.

He was nothing, a nobody, without people, without home. He could not go back. He _knew_ that. Why had he run?

He pushed himself to his feet. Aquila would have to kill him, if he returned. A man without honour was one thing, but a slave without honour was worthless. No one would be willing to spend their days watching, spend their nights with a blade in hand, waiting for the betrayal.

He looked about him blankly. He had no idea where he was. No place he could go to.

He had no kin in this part of the world and a stranger, alone in the woods, would not be met with welcome by any sane traveller. They'd think him a thief, which he was, he stole himself away. Or a murderer, which, if Esca and Aquila were truly dead...

He closed his eyes, feeling a cold fist close around his heart, and glanced back the way he came.

To leave without even knowing what his actions, what his cowardice had brought upon the other two? He shuddered. He couldn't do it.

He had to go back.

He had to know for sure, even if Aquila claimed his life. At least he would still be alive to do it.

He turned and began to retrace his steps. Moving slowly at first, then picking up speed. The undergrowth was easier to navigate, the path he'd taken easier to backtrack upon, and his exhaustion seemed to fall away as he ran. A flicker of hope, the dream-hound watching in satisfaction.

But eventually the energy his decision had given him began to flag, and his genuine tiredness broke in. He could not maintain a running pace constantly. He dropped into a loping walk and began to study his surroundings.

The sun began to climb in the sky, and soon it was shining down through the trees. The leaves stained the light green, and the woods were bathed in the delicate light. He passed under birds, flitting through the branches, without causing them to call in alarm. Watched rabbits halt and stare at him, their ears sharply pricked. He saw a group of deer far to his right, newborn fawns unsteady on their thin legs, the buck standing proudly beside his doe, its head tilted to watch Liathan as he passed.

Soon Liathan found what he was looking for, and began to turn from his earlier path, following the downturn of the land, and increasing sogginess of the soil. In moments he'd found a small bubbling brook, the water that flowed over the reddish stones biting cold. He knelt and gathered handfuls, bringing them to his mouth and swallowing thirstily.

The water tasted strongly of peat, nothing like the spring near his home, which was young and clear. It seemed only to underline what he already knew, that home was a very long way away.

Still, it was water, and it was fresh. He drank gratefully.

He was hungry too, but the desire to eat was easier to ignore, the meal from yesterday had been hearty and he was no stranger to the ache of hunger.

Some placeless urge was pushing him to move again, to not tarry here by the fresh water. He saw Esca and Aquila's faces in his mind and the memory shoved him back onto his feet, splashing across the stream and curving back to join his path.

Soon the trees began to thin, and he slowed as he reached the edge of the forest, looking about him warily, and listening for the sounds of people.

He edged towards the tree line and looked out towards the town. He could see the wall, stretching smoothly away from him, the wooden posts catching the morning sun.

The breadth of it was uniform, and he did not know where they had climbed over. He saw no packs, and no bodies, and something in him eased for a second, before he realised what little that meant. Their bodies would not have been left by the wall for the carrion. He turned to look towards the road and the gate to town.

It was shielded by the curve of the wall and he began to make his way around. He left the sight of the town and, waiting for a party of traders to pass, slipped from the cover of the trees to join the road. The traffic was not yet the bustle of the day -- the earliness of the hour working in his favour.

He approached the town from the road, trying to hide his wariness. Without his tunic he was less recognisable. There was no reason for the guards to associate the bound slave from the north, stumbling after a horse, with this lone man approaching the town. Still, he knew a man arriving without escort or kin would attract suspicion, and he could not help but tense.

As he grew closer, he looked up at the wall and the spikes by the guard tower. He saw two heads impaled on the stakes and he stumbled, breath choking in his lungs. He forced himself to keep moving, approaching them slowly, until he could see more clearly. The heads were old, rotting and black. Relief shuddered through him.

He kept walking towards the town, slowing as he approached. The guards stared at him warily, hands shifting on their weapons.

He raised his own hand in greeting. And one of the men split from the others and strode a couple of paces forward. Liathan halted with a good space between them.

The man jerked his chin at Liathan. "Alone?"

"Yes." Liathan shrugged. "We were set upon by bandits, my party was scattered, they took everything I had, even the clothes of my back." And he smiled, inviting the joke.

The man did not smile.

"None made it here then?" Liathan asked.

The man shook his head. "No." And then a second later. "Sorry," he added, thawing a little.

Liathan sighed "I had hoped, but... thieves" He shook his head sadly.

The man nodded. "Honour-less dogs." he removed his hand from the handle of his blade and swept it across his brow. "We've been plagued by them as well."

"Oh?" Liathan stepped closer,

The man nodded, and leant in, a glint in his eye. " _Romans._ "

Liathan pasted a suitable expression of shock on his face.

The man nodded and continued, "They stole from our inn here, came in disguise, took a room, and stole..." He shrugged. "Gold, I heard it was."

"Gold?" Liathan asked, raising an eyebrow. His scepticism must have been obvious for the man shifted back, frowning.

"Well, so I heard."

Liathan nodded rapidly. "Of course, of course." He waited a second, then, when the man didn't seem inclined to provide anything more, asked, "What happened to them?"

"Oh, they were killed."

Liathan's heart stopped.

"All but three."

It started beating again. "Is that so?" he managed to choke out.

The man glanced at him and Liathan coughed, pretending to clear his throat. He waved his hand for the man to continue.

"They escaped over the wall before light. A party was sent out to track them, they probably have them by now. They left at dawn."

Liathan wasn't confident his face could lie convincingly enough and he turned to scan the tree line, raising a hand to rub his jaw. Once he was sure he had himself under control he turned back. "Best of luck to them then," he said shortly, and he nodded, stepping away.

"You aren't..." The guard gestured towards the gates.

"Oh no, I must search for others who travelled with me. Maybe some yet live."

The man nodded and turned to go back to his fellows. "I hope you find them," he said over his shoulder.

"As do I." Liathan muttered under his breath, turning back onto the road.

He maintained a steady pace until the town was hidden by a curve in the road, and then he began to run.

Esca and Aquila would have headed south for sure. But he had no idea if they'd keep to the road or turn off it. There were tracks leading away from the road every so often, but he had no way of knowing if they were the right ones. His ignorance crawled at his skin.

He passed a few travellers on his way, and each time he stopped and asked about the party from the town. The travellers all pointed south, and he followed, able to at least track them, if not the other two.

He rounded a curve and saw an old man sitting by the verge, his cart piled full of sacks of wool. Liathan greeted him and smiled, trying to contain his nerves.

"Tell me, have you seen a group come by this way? From the town." He pointed back the way he'd come.

The old man tilted his head, thinking. "No, no." He shook his head. "There was a farmer and his wife, with cattle for market, they were going to the next town over. No good for cattle this one." He pointed to his own cart meaningfully. "Good for wool."

Liathan shook his head, he couldn't care less for the buying and selling of wares. "You're sure they didn't come by here? You're sure?"

"Yes." The man nodded decisively. "I'm sure."

"Thank you." Liathan reached out to clasp his hand, then turned back the way he'd came. The last group he'd asked, had said yes, they saw the men pass not so long ago.

He began backtrack, scanning the verge closely, looking for tracks. It did not take him long to find it and he left the road and began to follow.

The tracks led him down a long, rolling slope into a valley, and then along the path of a stream, the moss covered ground springy and wet. Eventually the stream opened into a shallow lake.

He was lost for a moment there, scanning the bank frantically until he saw the path pick up again on the far side, and he waded over, the water-logged ground sucking at the soles of his boots.

The path wound then, crossways up the mountain side, and Liathan ignored it, scrambling up the steep rocks, gripping clumps of heather and grass tufting around the boulders to drag himself up the almost vertical slope.

He gained the top, stood, then ducked instantly, settling in amongst the plants and rocks.

He could see the people from town. They were climbing the next slope over. As he watched, the last of them disappeared around the curve of the path. Her body obscured by a rocky outcrop. As soon as she was gone, Liathan straightened, skidding down the slope. He slipped and lost his footing, rolling the rest of the way. Mud smeared his bare skin and his hands and arms were scratched by all manner of brambles and rocks. His rapid fall slowed as he approached the foot and he managed to avoid striking any of the large boulders which peppered the slope.

He dragged himself to his feet and sprinted across the valley, wincing at the suck, suck of his footsteps in the soft mud. Then he was at the other side and scrambling again, pulling himself up and up towards the summit.

This face was rockier, and though he had the skill, it was made difficult by the wet smears of mud that covered almost every part of him. He slipped once or twice, knocking his knees and elbows as he grabbed for another purchase. But the pain meant nothing, the knowledge that he was running out of time spurring him on. He had to reach the others before the townsmen did. He had to.

The slope eventually became too steep to climb and he cast about for a path, finding a narrow, strip of ground that wound its way upwards. Sometimes he leapt for a higher rock and levered himself up, arms straining. Sometimes there was no option but to follow the winding path around the next outcrop and he took it at a run, trusting in his balance.

He passed into the cloud as he climbed, the wet mugginess of it sticking to his skin and getting in the places the mud had missed. Still he climbed, higher and higher until finally, with an abruptness that made him stumble, the land levelled.

He could see no more than four paces before him. Everything looked grey, rocks and stones and fog. The air up here carried voices strangely, and he could hear the townspeople, hear the noise of talking so clear that he jerked, expecting to see them appear at his shoulder.

He began to study the ground, moving slowly and carefully over the stones, studying each groove, each smudge of mud on stone. And he began to follow the path they had made. Controlling the urge to run madly forwards until the fog cleared and just hope he was going the right way.

He could not leave this up to hope.

Finally the fog began to thin, and with it grass started to wind its way between the stones. He saw the bent blades and depressions left by feet and he picked up his pace.

The land here sloped down at a steady rate, not quite steep enough to slide down, but still Liathan had to watch his footing, not particularly wanting to stumble and fall directly on top of those he was pursuing.

The marks they left were fresh and his spirits lifted even as the sun began to break through the cloud. Perhaps he would overtake them at the next rise. On the heels of the thought, he heard a shout, one voice high and clear, then two, then three, each raised in victory.

The hunters had found their prey.

Liathan abandoned all attempt at stealth, leaping forwards and heading directly for the sound.

The fog thinned to nothing and finally he could see. The land here curved into a scooped bowl. The depression in the centre carrying an almost circular pool. Rocks and boulders were gathered around the edge of it, bent, blackish trees huddling between them as if for shelter.

It was by those trees that Esca and Aquila stood, weapons out, facing the attackers that sped down the slope towards them. The three closest were the ones shouting, closing the distance between them rapidly. Behind them came two women, and behind them a man Liathan recognised. The great bushiness of his beard seared into his memory -- the slave trader. The metal of his blade glinting in the sun. Two archers stood on either side, taking position on the slopes, their bows aiming directly at Esca and Aquila's armour-less bodies.

Even as Liathan watched, the one closest to him loosed an arrow. Aquila ducking at the last moment, to let it strike harmlessly on the rock beside him.

Liathan moved, running low as he came up to the side of the archer, then leaping up onto his back. He gripped his face and snapped his head the the side before the man could even get a yell out.

Then he was scrambling off him, taking up his bow and aiming across the way at the other archer. She hadn't yet noticed him, and was sighting down her bow, into the hollow. Liathan drew back his string, aiming the arrow and exhaling.

Time stilled, the land around him seemed to fall silent.

He saw the archer draw her bow tight, saw the focus on her face, and then both their arrows were flying through the air.

Liathan's arrow seemed to disappear from his bow and reappear sticking perfectly out from the archer's neck. She crumpled to the ground. Liathan turned his gaze down to the others.

Aquila was locked in battle with the last of the closest three, his face clenched tight and pale with rage. He stumbled on his bad leg, and Liathan's heart leapt in his chest. But Aquila rose again, turning the fall into a lunge. As Liathan watched, his blade sunk home, he ripped it back out, blood gleaming wetly as the man fell to lie beside his fellows.

Aquila stepped forwards and Liathan saw Esca's body, lying still on the ground

Liathan did not remember how he passed the next few moments. Could not recall taking up the archer's blade and storming down the slope.

He did not know if he shouted, or if the three remaining attackers turned to face him.

Did not know how he might have looked all covered in mud and blood from the dead archer, eyes wild and black.

The next thing he remembered was being in the air, the drop from a great, angry leap and seeing exactly the path his blade would take. Seeing the shocked, terrified stare of the woman below him.

And then he was crashing into her, his sword stabbing into her flesh. He tore the blade out, blood-spray hot against his face.

The battle seemed to snap back into reality around him. Aquila was clashing swords with the last woman. The trader was between Liathan and Esca. Liathan charged forwards, ducking to slice at his legs but the trader was there to meet him, snarling viciously and shoving him back. The thickness of his arms straining under his tunic.

Liathan rallied and leapt forwards again, striking and stabbing in an insane flurry of blows. The trader had strength and skill, but Liathan was lit by madness and and the trader could not withstand the onslaught, finally faltering and moving his blade, too slow.

Liathan plunged his sword forwards, blade parting cloth, then flesh as it sunk into his chest.

The trader gasped, blood draining from his face, his skin suddenly pale under his beard, his eyes wide and shocked as the life slowly drained from them.

Liathan pulled his blade free and spun. Ready to meet the next attacker.

But there were none. Just Aquila, listing to the side a little, but with his blade held steady; and Esca, lying on the ground.

Liathan stepped forwards, but Aquila did too, moving between them. His gaze hard.

Liathan stared at him confusedly for a second, before finally grappling with his emotions and starting to think clearly once more.

He stepped back, and then dropped his blade. Raising his blood stained and weapon-less hands.

Aquila let his sword point down, then he went to Esca, raising him carefully onto his lap.

He brushed the hair back from Esca's brow with painful tenderness. "Esca, Esca," he repeated his name, clutching him tightly. Esca did not move. Liathan felt his knees give way, a black cloud seeming to descend over the three of them.

Esca opened his eyes. Liathan stared in shock as Esca blinked, then coughed, body shaking. His face tightened in pain. He blinked again then focused on Aquila, staring up at him. Aquila's face was blank with shock, and he started when Esca raised his hand to his cheek, leaving a bright smear of blood on his skin.

Liathan forced himself to remain still, trying to get his breathing under control. Shaking with relief and adrenaline from the battle.

Finally the two broke apart and helped each other to their feet. Esca's thigh was red with blood, but the arrow that had lamed him was nowhere to be seen, it must have passed clean through.

He turned to look at the dead and only then did he see Liathan. His face went utterly white for a second and he swayed. Aquila grabbed him tighter, and, seeing where he was looking, began speaking rapidly, shaking his head.

Esca thought he had helped their attackers, Liathan realised, and he scrambled to his feet, hands outstretched. "No, no," he said hoarsely. "I was not, I- I came back."

Esca stared at him, then swallowed roughly, still gripping Aquila for support.

"Why?"

Liathan stared back, eyes flicking to Esca's leg.

"You need treatment-"

"Why!" Esca shouted, the word echoing off the slopes.

Liathan stared at him, breathing shallowly.

"I was a coward. I ran from you. Like a coward. I ran from you both." He found the weight of Esca's gaze to heavy to bear and he focused on a point beyond his shoulder.

"I am an oath breaker, A craven. Without honour."

He was panting, the words dragged up from the very pit of him.

"I had to try to... I could not live... I came to..." _To fix it._ He could see the hound from his dream, hovering at the edge of sight.

He took a step forward, dropping to his feet before them and raising his head to bare his neck.

"Kill me." He looked between them. "I don't deserve to live."

The painful symmetry of the moment was not lost on him. And he hated that he had brought so much shame on his own shoulders.

Aquila looked down at him, understanding his actions if not his words. Esca moaned and Liathan's eyes cut to him, seeing him sway against Aquila, hand pressing against this wound. But his eyes fluttered open again, dark as they met Liathan's.

"Swear to me," he said, and his voice was inhumanly harsh. "Swear you will never run again."

Liathan forced the words around the block in his chest. "I have nothing so swear on."

Esca's gaze was painful. "Swear on your son."

Liathan's blood turned to ice in his veins. His son, whom he had killed for betraying his honour. His own son, who had died for a lesser crime than Liathan had now committed.

He shook his head sharply. "I cannot. I must die, I-"

"You ran from us!" Esca interrupted him. "You forfeit your honour, everything..." He paused and sucked in a breath, lines of tension appearing on his brow. Aquila said something but Esca shook his head, eyes snapping open. "... It's ours. To do with as we will."

Liathan could 't look away from him. "Yes," he breathed.

"Then swear it."

"I swear," Liathan said, "I swear. I'm yours."


	2. Marcus

**

Esca collapsed as soon as Liathan finished speaking. His eyes rolling up to show the whites. Marcus tightened his grip, bearing against the strain, but the flash of pain from his leg was too strong and in second he was on the ground next to Esca. Esca's breathing was faint, his skin pale and clammy. Marcus pressed his hand to Esca's forehead – he was too cold.

He let his head drop for a second, pleading silently that the Gods would be merciful. That they hadn't lived through everything, only to die now. Then he dragged himself up, and looked over at Liathan. The man was still kneeling, but he was leant forwards, as if he wanted to rise.

Marcus pushed himself back to his feet.

They needed to get to the wall, They needed treatment.

Liathan watched him rise, stood along with him, then he turned away. Marcus resigned himself to the sight of Liathan leaving them, again. But Liathan didn't leave, instead he walked to one of the bent trees between the boulder, and began hacking at it with his blade. Marcus stared at him for a second in confusion, then shook his head. If he wanted to waste the sharp edge on wood, he was welcome to it.

Marcus limped to where he had stashed the packs before the attack, and from them, drew out the tunic Esca had been shredding to provide a binding for his leg. He ripped off a couple of lengths and began to bind Esca's wound as best he could, pulling the knots tight to staunch the blood flow. Esca didn't wake as he worked, though he moaned, each time making Marcus wince, and whisper apologies under his breath.

Liathan returned from his inexplicable rage, and Marcus saw, he hadn't been taking out his anger on the tree, he'd been cutting a staff. The stick was a little curved, like an unbent bow, but sturdy, and it held fast when Liathan put his weight on it, before handing it over.

"Thank you," Marcus said, eyes wide, and he used the staff to push himself back to his feet. Liathan watched Marcus lean on it, measuring it's strength and avoiding Marcus' eyes, then he turned to Esca, and, careful of the wound, lifted him onto his bare back.

He glanced back at Marcus, and bent stiffly to grab the packs and swing them onto his shoulder. The heaviness of the eagle pulled down on his shoulders and it took him a second to find his balance. Then, looking up, he pointed towards the south. Liathan turned silently, and they began to move up the slope, past the dead bodies on the ground and over to the next hill.

He let Liathan walk ahead, even with the staff, the going was slow, his leg protesting each movement. The wound wasn't bleeding much, the places where it had reopened were shallow. But it had caused the entire area to swell up, and bending the knee was difficult and painful.

Swinging his leg in a stiff walk was impossible on the steep slopes, but he trod where Liathan trod, trusting the other man to choose his footing carefully under his own burden. Strange, that he was trusting him again. True, he had no choice, and he could see they were heading south, but still, he wondered if he was making a mistake.

He paused for a second at the top of a rise, panting, and looked at Liathan as he moved ahead down the slope. He had a firm grip around Esca's middle, and was watching his footing as they navigated the steep decline. But as Marcus watched he paused and turned to look up at him.

He had to squint his eyes against the sun, and likely he couldn't see much more of Marcus than a silhouette. Marcus wondered what he saw, whether there was something there that had drawn him back to save them, or whether all his reasons were being carried on his shoulders.

He shrugged off the thought, rolling his shoulders under the packs, and followed Liathan down the hill.

As they walked, the sun shone brighter above them. Sweat began to drip down the line of Marcus' back. Each step grew more difficult, and his breath more and more ragged. Whenever he looked up, he saw Liathan's back, muscles moving under dirty skin as he shifted his hold on Esca. Soon that back was covered with sweat as well as mud and dark stains of blood. Marcus wondered how filthy he must look as well, the same stains on his tunic that Liathan had smeared over his skin.

Distracted, Marcus tripped, the staff slipping on a stone, and he hissed, breath catching in his throat as pain went screaming up his knee. The leg stiffened and he collapsed, falling to the ground in a broken mess of limbs. Winded by the fall, it took him a second to draw breath into his lungs and raise his head. When he looked up, Liathan had halted and was staring back at him.

Marcus tasted frustration at being unable to communicate, but still. "Keep going," he said, guessing Liathan would understand the sentiment, if not the words. He gestured to the path with his free hand. After a second Liathan shook his head. Marcus tightened his jaw. Liathan couldn't carry the both of them and Esca had to get treatment. "Keep going," he repeated, gesturing more sharply at the path. Liathan only shook his head again and stood there. Standing tall despite the heat and Esca's weight on his shoulders.

How far had he ran from them? How far had he come back? Marcus had seen him leap onto their attackers, appear out of nowhere -- utterly terrifying in that moment, like all the tales of wild barbarians come to life. But he had been panting too, chest rising and falling almost like a heartbeat. Like it had in the inn when Marcus had cut through his ropes.

He blinked away the memories. Liathan was still standing there, and Marcus, in painful increments, pulled himself back onto his feet. He swayed, white knuckled grip on the staff, waiting for the world to stop rocking. Then, resettling the packs on his sweaty back, he began to walk. One foot in front of the other, slow and steady, bridging the distance between them.

Liathan waited until he was almost alongside, before turning and continuing on down the slope.

The land began to level into an open plain, hawks and buzzards crying out and wheeling above them. Their crowing sounding through the air, slick with satisfaction.

He was sure, from the journey north, that the wall was less than half day away, but their pace was slow, and the sun began to descend as they walked, setting the hillsides alight with yellow orange fire.

His world narrowed down to step upon step, punctuated by his breath and that of Liathan's ahead of him, the both joining in a steady harmony. The thump of their feet and the thundering of blood with each heartbeat counted out the time. The crying of the birds above was the tune, and everything was music. He was so focused that he didn't notice Liathan's hoarse shout at first, mistaking it for a heavy breath, It wasn't until Liathan shouted again, that Marcus raised his head from his tired study of the ground.

Liathan was pointing in front of them. He pointed more forcefully and spoke again, " _Look._ "

Marcus looked, and his breath caught. In the distance, a thin grey line bisected the view, extending along the ground like a snake, struck dead. And like a snake, a lump for the head stood far to their right. The breath held in Marcus' lungs ripped free. The wall. Relief showered down on him like cool water. The wall. Help was here.

They began to move faster, dragging themselves towards the grey line that grew taller and more distinct as they approached. They angled their path towards the head, and as they grew closer it transformed into a turret, a gate and an arch, and the beginnings of a grey stone road that led down from it. A long ditch ran in front of the wall, the road extending over a bridge as it crossed it, and there were wooden spikes and defences similar to those Marcus had equipped the Fourth with. Most were new, and when he looked at the wall, he could see signs of fresh repairs done there as well.

The gates opened as they reached the road, and legionnaires filed out, two, then four, then six, each with their shields and short swords in their hands. Men lined the wall above, and still more looked down from the watchtower. A seventh man stepped out from the gates, the red plumes of his helmet moving in the wind.

Liathan halted, wavering, a little, and as Marcus came level with him, he could hear even clearer how ragged Liathan's breathing had grown. He glanced at Esca too, noting the paleness of his skin, but then he was in front of them, raising his free hand.

"I am Marcus Flavius Aquila, previously Commander of the Fourth." He pitched his voice to carry.

After a second, the helmeted Centurion saluted back. "Gaius Menius Libo." He clearly hadn't expected to be greeted by someone of such high rank. Marcus guessed he must look about as bad as he'd suspected.

"We were set upon." He waved his hand behind them. "Half a day's walk back. We're in need of medical attention. My friend..." He gestured at Esca. "...is wounded, an arrow to the leg."

The Centurion glanced at Esca and Liathan, a hardness in his eyes, hidden when he looked back at Marcus, and then he was ordering his men to take Esca inside.

Marcus allowed himself to relax, and he hefted his packs on his back. He was walking towards the Centurion when there was a sudden shout behind him. He spun to see the legionnaires, gripping their swords, ranged in a loose circle around Liathan. He had drawn his blade and was stumbling back, tightening his grip on Esca's body.

"Liathan!"

He jerked his head to look at Marcus, and Marcus hoped the meaning of what he said would be clear in his face. "It's all right. They will help. Liathan. It's all right." He nodded and mimed handing Esca over.

There was a moment when Marcus thought it wouldn't work, when they'd have to take Esca from him by force, but finally Liathan lowered his blade, turning back to the legionnaires and pulling Esca from his back. The men, still looking wary, sheathed their blades and came forwards. They passed Esca between then, Liathan swaying a little at the sudden loss of his burden.

"Liathan," Marcus called again, gesturing for the man, who had stood transfixed as they took Esca away, to join him. Liathan approached slowly and Marcus turned to follow the others. But the turning twisted his leg and he gasped, falling sideways. In a second Liathan was there, catching Marcus' fall and sliding under his arm, as he had in the town.

"Sir?" The Centurion's eyes travelled between them, then focused on Marcus.

"I'm fine. It's an old wound."

The Centurion seemed unconvinced, Marcus didn't blame him, he'd felt the blood rush from his face as he fell, and was still blinking the dizziness from his eyes. He attempted to straighten as they passed through the gate. But his leg shook, and he didn't release his grip on Liathan's shoulders.

The milecastle was about the same size as the one he'd taken into the north with Esca. But the legionnaires here were more alert, their armour shined and in good repair. Different as well were the defences he could see -- the ditches freshly dug, wooden ramparts, recently repaired.

"Have you seen fighting here?"

The Centurion nodded shortly and again he glanced at Liathan.

"My slave," Marcus explained, and he felt Liathan jerk at that, a twitch of muscle under Marcus' arm, but no other outward show of emotion.

The Centurion nodded. "And the other?"

"A freed slave," Marcus replied. "He served me well across the wall."

The Centurion seemed sceptical, curling his eyebrow upwards.

"He saved my life," Marcus added. Of course, now that was true of Liathan as well.

They'd walked through the wall as they spoke, and now emerged into the barracks, wooden walls extending away from them. The camp was a good deal smaller than that of the Fourth. Marcus, counting tents as he walked, estimated sixty to eighty men in all.

The Centurion lead them directly to the doctor's tent, where Esca was already laid out.

A thin, balding man approached, waving Marcus towards a bed. Marcus sat, dropping the packs to the floor by his feet and Liathan slipped free, stepping away, then freezing as the thin man approached.

Marcus glanced up at him, but he was soon distracted by the man moving to unwrap the binding on his leg. "No," he said, blocking the man’s hands. "See to Esca first." He gestured towards the other bed.

The man looked up at him.

"His wound is worse, he took an arrow to the thigh," Marcus insisted.

The man straightened.

"And your wound?" His voice was high and reedy.

"An old wound, it's simply overworked. I just need rest. Please. He'll bleed out if you don't treat him."

Finally the doctor nodded and turned towards Esca, "Lucius," he called as he turned, and a younger man unbent from where he had been heating water by the stove. "See to this patient," he said, pointing at Marcus.

The young man, Lucius, approached, ducking his head a little as he caught Marcus' gaze. Marcus glanced up at Liathan, they looked about the same age, though under all that grime Liathan was wearing, he could be mistaken for almost anyone. As if the thought was a signal, Liathan swayed suddenly, muscles locking as he jerked himself back upright.

"Is there somewhere my slave can go to wash and rest?" Marcus turned to the Centurion.

"Sir." The man nodded, going to the tent flap and calling out.

Marcus hissed as Lucius began to unwrap his leg, the blood having congealed and stuck the fabric to his skin.

"Sorry, sir, sorry. " He cringed.

"It's fine, fine. Continue."

The Centurion returned with another legionnaire "Decimus will show your slave to the slave's quarters."

Marcus nodded. "He speaks no Latin."

"There are slaves who can translate."

Marcus turned to Liathan, who, perhaps recognising the word slave, was looking at him. "Go with Decimus." Marcus pointed.

Liathan turned to look at Decimus, then over at Esca.

"Esca will be fine. Go."

He kept his gaze steady. Here then, was the first test. Marcus felt almost sorry for him, thrown into this situation -- no language, in the military camp of his enemies.

Finally Liathan stepped forwards, head high as he followed Decimus out, looking nothing like a slave.

Marcus stayed watching the tent flap after they'd left.

"You don't trust him?"

Marcus jerked his head to look up at the Centurion, frowning. "Of course I trust him."

"Forgive, me." The Centurion bowed his head. "You just seemed..."

"He doesn't speak the language," Marcus said. "And he's not been in a camp before."

Then he shrugged, and tried to put it from his mind, looking instead over to where Esca was being treated.

The doctor had some sort of small silvery implement in his hand, a needle Marcus realised, seeing the thread his assistant was unspooling.

"Stitches?" he asked.

The Centurion looked over. "Our doctor knows what he's doing, don't worry."

"He'd better," Marcus muttered, and Lucius jerked a little. Marcus glanced down, catching the man’s wide eyed look, and tempered his expression to something slightly less dangerous.

"Sir, if you'll permit me to ask. What were you doing over the wall?"

Marcus looked up at the Centurion, then casually looked over to the doctor and his assistant, aware of Lucius crouching by his leg. "Perhaps we can speak once my leg is seen to?"

"Of course sir. Shall I have someone take your belongings to your tent?" He gestured to the packs Marcus had brought in with him.

"No." Marcus said, after a moment, aware this was staring to look odd. "Once my leg has been seen to, I will find you in your tent." And he looked up at the Centurion steadily.

"... Yes sir." The man saluted, then walked to the flap and exited the tent.

Marcus bore the treatment of his leg silently, Lucius taking some of the heated water and cleaning his wound carefully. The split skin was clearly along the line of the old wound, but it was messy more than deep, and the flesh around it looked healthy. Esca's bindings had kept it from dirt or infection. Lucius, taking new bindings, wrapped the leg securely, then stepped back.

"Good work. Thank you."

Lucius' eyes flicked up to meet Marcus' and he ducked his head again, red staining his cheeks. "You're welcome, sir."

"If you're finished you can help here." The doctor's voice rang out and Lucius jumped, quickly taking the blooded water to the tent flap. There he directed someone outside to dispose of it and the dirtied dressings. Then he turned back and joined the doctor at Esca's bedside.

The doctor had finished with the stitches, and between them they wrapped his thigh tightly, Lucius and the assistant holding the dressings secure. Once bound, the doctor checked Esca's pulse, opening his eyelid to stare into his eye, then he came over to Marcus, placing a cool, dry hand on his brow.

"No fever. Good."

"And Esca?"

The doctor looked down at Marcus, pursing his lips. "Your _friend_ will be fine. He lost blood, but the wound is clean and goes only through the outer flesh of the leg."

Marcus felt a flash of irritation, but didn’t protest the insinuation. Perhaps it would ensure Esca had better treatment.

"I've given him poppy."

Marcus looked away from where he'd been staring at Esca's sleeping form, battling down the curl of embarrassment at being caught out.

"He'll sleep the night through."

The doctor then showed him to the fire, and Lucius provided him with cleaning implements, with which he did his best to scrape the worst of the dirt and blood from his skin, tiredness making his limbs heavy.

"There are baths," Lucius said, taking the strigil when he was done. "If you wish to use them, I can call someone to show you where."

"No," Marcus said, wanting to talk to the Centurion before he collapsed from exhaustion. "It can wait until tomorrow." He glanced sideways at Lucius, "I don't smell that ripe do I?" Lucius blushed and stuttered, and Marcus almost felt bad for teasing him. He finished washing quickly, before pushing himself to his feet with the aid of his staff.

The doctor turned to look when he saw him leaving. "What are you doing? You need to rest as well-"

"I have to speak to the Centurion. Then I'll rest," he promised.

The doctor stared at him, opening his mouth to continue, when his assistant, replacing the needle and thread, accidentally knocked a case of instruments to the floor. The case fell open and the metal tools scattered across the ground. The doctor rounded on him, shouting in his reedy voice, and Marcus took advantage of the confusion to grab his packs and duck out of the tent.

He limped his way past the tents, legionnaires saluting him as he passed, gossip, as ever, travelling like lightening through the camp. By the time he reached the Centurion's tent, the legionnaires standing guard were ready, lifting the tent flap up for him.

Marcus thanked them and entered. He straightened and looked about him. The tent was set up just as all the others he'd been in. A table in the centre with maps and other documents spread out upon it,next to it a couple of chairs and a side table with food and drink.

The Centurion was sitting, but he stood as Marcus entered. His helmet was on the table, and he looked older in the lamplight, grey strands in his close cut hair, and lines on his face.

He walked round the table towards Marcus. "Sir." He waved him towards one of the chairs and Marcus sat, happy to take the pressure off his leg. He put his packs on the ground between them. The Centurion went over to the table and came back with a tray of food. "I had them bring it here sir, I hope that’s all right."

"Of course, thank you Centurion." Marcus slid the plate closer. Then, with his good leg, he pushed the pack with the eagle over to the Centurion. "Open it."

He stared for a second, before bending to unwrap the laces and pull the mouth open.

"Take it out." Marcus nodded to the bundle, and The Centurion did so, walking to the table, clearing a space and placing the bundle there. Marcus gestured with his arm, _go on_ , and watched the Centurion’s face as he removed the cloth covering. He watched the Centurion's expression shift, confusion turning to shock, shock turning to awe.

"Sir, is this..."

"The lost eagle of the Ninth." He paused. "Yes."

The Centurion looked at him, eyes wide.

"Sit." Marcus laughed. "And close your mouth before a fly gets in."

The Centurion's jaw shut with a snap.

Marcus, in the barest manner possible, explained the trip over the wall and the taking of the eagle. He mentioned the men of the Ninth, and their misfortune in the town as well as the final attack in the hills. He avoided mentioning names, avoided mentioning when exactly he'd freed Esca, and when exactly he'd claimed Liathan, if his hunch was right, it'd serve them all better to let them think they came with him from the south.

When he'd finished his tale, and his food as well, he leant back, allowing the Centurion to soak it in.

"Does this mean-" He coughed. "Will the Ninth be reformed?"

Marcus shrugged, controlling his flash of want. "That's for the politicians to decide." He fixed the Centurion with a sharp look. "Why do you ask?"

The Centurion looked up, and, realising the storytelling had passed to him, straightened in his chair.

"You saw the repairs on the wall?"

Marcus nodded.

"We've been hit hard these past few months. Have you heard of the Selgovae?"

Marcus nodded slowly. "They fought often against us. Along with the Brigantes." And he was glad his voice came out steady.

"Yes." The Centurion nodded. "But since the Ninth, the Brigantes have been silent, they lost as many men as they killed. The Selgovae on the other hand, they’ve been raiding up and down the wall. The milecastles have been hit hardest, but I've heard there's been fighting at the forts, at Banna and Magnis..." He ran his hand through his hair, shoulders slumping. "I've been at the wall ten years. We've veterans here who've served longer. Raiding like this..." He shook his head. "They're gearing up for something, we're sure of it." He pursed his lips. "But in Rome, the politicians..."

His eyes went to the eagle. "This, the Ninth, that would mean something. To take the Eagle back over the wall."

Marcus could hear in his voice the same feeling that echoed in his own heart -- Glory and victory and all the reasons he'd wanted to become a soldier.

The Centurion turned his face to Marcus and his eyes were shining. Marcus stared back at him, imagining it, the culmination of all his dreams, carrying his father's standard over the wall, leading his own cohort to push back the-

And there his dream failed, because the barbarians were no longer a faceless horde, now he saw familiar features under the woad.

He shook the visions from his mind.

"Well." He sat up straighter. "Like I said, that's for the politicians to decide."

He leant forwards to re-wrap the eagle.

"You understand, this has to be kept secret." He fixed the Centurion with a look. "There is a lot of road between here and Rome, anything could happen."

The Centurion nodded, and Marcus, staring in his eyes, believed the sincerity on his face -- he wanted the Ninth too much to let news of the eagle escape.

Marcus yawned suddenly, jaw cracking, and he blushed. "Forgive me."

"No, no." The Centurion cut him off. "My fault for keeping you so long with talk." He stood and called for one of the legionnaires to escort Marcus to his tent

"Thank you, Centurion." Marcus stood, replacing the eagle and hefting the packs onto his back.

"Gaius," he replied. "I would be honoured if you called me Gaius, sir."

"Gaius then."

Marcus gripped his forearm tightly. Before now it hadn't really sunk in, but standing here, seeing the respect in the Centurion's gaze, it all finally became real to him. He'd done it. The eagle was his, his family's honour was restored. Perhaps it was his exhaustion, but the success he felt wasn't as fierce as he'd imagined.

Outside night had fallen, the darkness punctuated by flaming torches along the walls. The legionnaire led Marcus to a tent, and held the flap for Marcus to enter. The interior was dim, the only light from the brazier in the centre. In that low light it took Marcus a second to notice Liathan, stood silently in the corner.

They stared at each other for a second, before Liathan moved forwards, taking the packs from Marcus and stowing them in the chest.

Then he turned back to face Marcus.

"You've eaten?" He mimed the action, and Liathan nodded. "Good."

Silence fell again, awkward and thick. He wanted to ask what else he'd done, what the slaves had said, what the legionnaires had said. Whether their anger towards the Selgovae had come out in their behaviour towards him, but the words had no way of reaching Liathan and finally Marcus gave up, nodding once more.

"Sleep?" He mimed, looking about the tent and seeing no other bed or pallet.

Liathan said something in his tongue, pointing out the door. Then, "Slave," he said, accent twisting the word. He flushed, and dropped his eyes, looking very young in that moment. Marcus was forcibly reminded of the battle, his clean skin under the water.

He wondered what they would say if he demanded Liathan sleep in his tent. Not that such a thing was remarkable, but the implication with Esca, then Liathan too... such arrangements were a little less common.

He sighed, frustrated by his impotence, and walked over the the bed, levering himself down with the aid of the staff. Exhaustion pressed in upon him and he had to control the urge to fall back onto the covers. He laid the staff on the floor, and looked back up at Liathan.

"Sleep." He waved towards the tent flap.

Liathan hesitated a second, looking about the tent. Perhaps due to his tiredness, Liathan's awkwardness angered him suddenly. He hadn't asked for this, it seemed he was to be plagued by unwanted slaves -- get rid of one, gain another. He wished Liathan had just stayed away... of course, then they would have died in the hollow...

His anger rushed out of him, and he looked up to call Liathan back. But he was gone.

Feeling guilty, and angry at feeling guilty, Marcus wrestled with the covers, gritting his teeth against the pain from his leg. He beat his pillow with his fists, and thumped his head down upon it, shutting his eyes tightly. The sheets smelt strongly of ammonia, the sharp scent making him sneeze. The smell was so familiar, so utterly familiar that he choked on his next breath, chest growing tight.

He remembered again the pride in Gaius' eyes as he gripped his arm.

But, as sleep dragged him down, the grip became Esca's, rain falling about them, his hand on his face, and he fell asleep with Esca's voice echoing in his mind.

**

The next morning Marcus woke before the dawn. The pain from his leg had made his sleep restless and light, despite his exhaustion. He pushed himself free of the covers, stretching his leg out in front of him to relieve his aching muscles.

On the table he found fresh clothes, and he dressed quickly, wanting to use the baths before they became too crowded.

He took up his staff and left his tent, nodding to the legionnaires on sentry duty. He limped past them, walking through the camp towards the baths where he bathed quickly and efficiently. By the time the sun was lightening the sky, he had washed away the last tendrils of sleep, and was making his way to the doctor's tent.

As he drew closer, he saw a tall man, dressed in plain slave whites ducking under the tent flap. Marcus entered a minute after, his limp making him slow. The slave was sat beside Esca's bed, and now Marcus saw, with a strange shock of recognition, that the slave was Liathan -- familiar features in unfamiliar garb.

Marcus came up on Liathan's right and looked down at Esca. He was breathing easier, and the colour had come back to his face. The tightness in Marcus' chest eased. It seemed the doctor really did know his craft. Marcus cast about for him, but the only other person in the tent was the assistant, asleep in his chair in the far corner.

Marcus looked back at Esca, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest for a moment before turning to Liathan. There was a dark smudge on the side of Liathan's cheek, at first Marcus mistook it for a patch of shadow, then a second later, recognised it as the purpling blush of a bruise.

He frowned. "What's this?" he asked, reaching out towards Liathan's face.

Liathan jerked backwards, tumbling to the floor then scrambling back and to his feet. His eyes were wide. The assistant woke with a splutter.

Marcus lowered his voice. "What is this?" he asked again, pointing.

Liathan stared, then suddenly ducked his head, shoulders hunching a little.

It looked wrong for him to stand like that, clothed in a slave tunic, his skin so pale, the bruise so dark. Marcus felt that familiar mess of pity, anger and frustration that Liathan brought out in him. "Tell me who," he insisted, aware Liathan couldn't understand and only growing more frustrated.

A stream of words came from the bed, and Marcus and Liathan both looked down in surprise. Esca spoke again, his voice hoarse.

"Water." Marcus demanded of the assistant, turning back to Esca and unable to stop himself reaching out, brushing his hand along his brow. He saw Liathan's hand reach out, then halt, clenching the bed covers by Esca's arm.

The assistant brought water, and he took it, leaning forwards to bring it to Esca's lips. The angle was wrong and it spilt down his cheek. "Sorry, sorry," Marcus apologised, moving back. Then Liathan was slipping his hand under Esca's head, raising him upright. Marcus tried again and this time Esca drank.

Between them they brought him up to sitting, and Esca took the cup from Marcus, sipping again then resting his hands in his lap. He looked between them, eyes lingering on the bruise on Liathan's face, and spoke again, translating Marcus' question.

Liathan straightened and stepped back, shaking his head. Esca spoke again, voice harder, and Liathan finally responded, the words stilted.

"He didn't bow his head, when the soldiers passed. He looked them in the eyes." Esca's voice was emotionless.

Marcus turned to Liathan, but he was looking at the floor, shoulders slumped. Again Marcus was struck by the wrongness of it. He looked back at Esca. "Tell him..." What could he say? Marcus couldn't stop the men in the camp from treating him like a slave. He _was_ a slave. "Tell him, he needs to-"

"He won't make the same mistake again," Esca interrupted.

Marcus nodded, "I'll speak to the Centurion."

Esca stared at him. "Will that help?"

Marcus sighed. "I'll let it be known... I'm possessive over my property."

The hardness in Esca's face was tinged with surprise.

Marcus shrugged. "It's the best I can think of. I'll see about having a pallet made up in my room."

He deliberately turned his thoughts away from the repercussions of having Liathan so close. Of the rumours which would spring up about the camp. Not one barbarian, but two.

He watched Esca relay the information to Liathan. Watched him turn to stare at Marcus, before hastily dropping his eyes. He asked Esca something, hesitantly, and Esca talked over him with his reply, shaking his head. Liathan's shoulders relaxed fractionally.

Suddenly Marcus didn't want to be there, didn't want to deal with the questions that Esca would relay. He stood, the movement made slow by the flash of pain in his knee.

Esca's face was utterly neutral, and for once Marcus wished he'd slip up and show him how he felt, instead of forcing Marcus to ask, "Do you mind? I can find some other-"

"Why would I mind?"

 _Why indeed?_ Marcus turned his face away, mouth twisting. "I have things to see to." His voice came out rough.

"Marcus."

"I'll be back later." Marcus looked anywhere but in Esca's eyes, and left quickly, before he could say something he'd later regret.

He waited outside until his heartbeat slowed, and the image of Esca -- _wet skin in the rain_ \-- had faded.

That night Liathan stayed in his tent after sunset. Marcus searched for some question to ask and break the tension. But their lack of common language was a barrier, and their awkwardness an even greater one. Short of placing his fingers under Liathan's chin and pushing it up, he couldn't tell him he didn't care if he looked him in the eyes, preferred it in fact.

Maybe it was better this way. Better Liathan learned what he'd have to learn. Still, the thought lingered, walking up to him and tilting his head up, dark eyes framed with long dark lashes....

He rolled over on his bed, restless again.

He could hear Liathan moving, settling on the pallet, and then there was just the low crackle of the coals in the brazier as they chased out the chill.

Liathan woke early, even earlier than Marcus. And Marcus was glad that the morning was not stained with the same uneasy balance the night had been.

The next few days were busy. He sent a message to his uncle, telling him of their safe return over the wall and their intention to travel to Calleva, before continuing on towards Rome. But telling him also of their attack, and the need to wait and rest a while before they continued their journey.

Marcus checked on Esca each morning, but Esca slept often, and most times Marcus simply sat watch by Esca's bedside. Sometimes Liathan would be there as well, and they'd sit on either side of him, avoiding each other's eyes.

The rest of the day was spent in camp with Gaius. The centurion knew what he was doing, the defences were well looked after, and secure. The men clearly respected him, and Marcus was dutifully impressed. He told Gaius as much, promising to mention his name when in Rome.

He learnt more about the Selgovae, though there were no raids while he was there. But he listened to the other officers tell stories of the attacks. They would look over the maps in Gaius' tent together, marking out routes and vantage points. Marcus helped where he could, but he was sure that he learnt more than he taught.

The pain in Marcus' leg gradually faded to just a twinge in the mornings and at night. He began to walk the wall with Gaius, checking the defences, and occasionally going out into the surrounding countryside with small groups of legionnaires -- keeping the road safe and clear.

The wall had to be kept open for trade and commerce. Often Marcus would see traders and travellers crossing through the gate, past the barracks. He thought of Liathan then, almost sending out a runner to place his slave, to make sure he was still safely within the camp. But he always stopped himself. Unsure if he trusted Liathan not to run, or didn't want to know if he had.

Still, every night Liathan was in his tent, waiting by the brazier for Marcus to retire, before folding himself into his pallet. He wore no more bruises, Marcus having made it clear he wouldn't tolerate any such behaviour. But he saw the hardness in soldier's eyes when they watched Liathan and he casually let slip that he had been bought in the south, Esca as well, with no connection at all to the wild northerners. He wasn't sure if it helped, but he felt better for doing so.

Liathan seemed to be acclimatising to his life well, but Marcus didn't see him for much of the day, figuring it would be better if he were kept busy, than left to stew over his predicament in Marcus' tent. He saw him working occasionally, fetching and carrying. The doctor seemed to have claimed him as a third assistant and he spent most of his time in the tent with Esca, the both of them talking in their tongue and falling silent when Marcus came in.

Marcus took advantage of a rare space without him to ask Esca how he was managing. Esca shrugged. "As well as can be expected."

Marcus flicked his eyes away from the scoop of skin exposed by the low collar of Esca's tunic. "We won't be here long."

Esca shrugged again, shoulders moving underneath the cloth. "It's not here, it's... it's all of it."

"I didn't ask him to do it."

Esca caught his gaze. "I know you didn't." He paused. "I did."

"Better than dead."

"Is it?" Esca picked at a fraying edge of his blanket, the thread unravelling between his fingers. "He- I was so angry with him for running."

"I would be dead if you hadn't made me your slave."

Esca looked up at Marcus, his gaze unusually clear.

Marcus stared back, wishing he knew how to reassure him, or if not that, then turn the conversation around to something else, to that easy talk they'd shared before. But, now he thought of it, he wondered when that time was exactly. They hadn't had a moment to themselves in between all the mess of riding and lying and running, and riding some more.

"It'll be good to be home."

Esca's face shuttered and Marcus realised they'd left the closest place to _his_ home when they'd stolen the eagle.

A thought dropped into his mind, the kind of painful truth a less honourable man might have ignored. "Esca. He's your slave as much as mine."

Esca looked up at him, a frown between his eyes, and Marcus had to hold back the sudden urge to rub his thumb along that line, smooth it from his skin. He swallowed, breaking away from Esca's gaze. "When I go south. You don't have to come with me." The pain was a band around his ribs.

"Are you sending me away?"

Should he lie? Say yes and give them an excuse to leave? The words wouldn't fit past the constriction in his chest. He would selfishly rather Esca stayed with him out of some sort of misguided loyalty than leave him behind.

"No." He swallowed. "No, Esca, I-"

The tent flap opened, and a flash of cooler air flowed in. Marcus jerked back, realising how close their faces had come.

Liathan stood silhouetted in the doorway, before coming forward, an odd, closed expression on his face, his eyes flicking between them.

Marcus flushed, blaming the tent's stuffy heat. "I should..." He stood abruptly, his knee making a half hearted twinge. He'd foregone the staff for the first time, and his walk felt oddly unbalanced without it.

"Does he need anything?" He ran his gaze along the edge of the bed, only glancing up when Esca was silent a little too long. He couldn't decipher his gaze either, jumping between him and Liathan. (He wondered what an outsider might take of their awkward little dance.)

Liathan shook his head in response to Esca's translation, and Marcus made his way to the tent flap. He glanced back, before leaving, saw Liathan sitting in the chair he'd just vacated. Then the cloth was falling down between them and he was outside.

A few days later, he received a message from his uncle. He expected them soon, the letter said, and praised them for bringing back the eagle. He also sent compliments from Claudius and Placidus, who were visiting, and had shared in his happiness and surprise at the news.

Finally the doctor agreed Esca was ready to travel. They took three horses from the stables -- a generous loan, which Giaus, with a meaningful look at their packs, insisted was justified. He also gave them provisions: food and drink, and fresh clothes. Marcus stared at Esca for a full minute, completely unprepared for the sight of him in a military tunic. "All you need is a helmet," he joked, and Esca took an apple from their packs and threw it at him.

The journey south was faster now they weren't fleeing cross-country. They used solid, Roman roads, stone or wood, and made good time. However, the unseasonable good weather they'd enjoyed broke after the first day, and rain began to fall in fits and starts. By the third day it had settled into a relentless stream of water, not heavy so much as insistent, trickling down their necks and soaking through their clothes to lie cold against their skin. It kept up through the night as well, and their sleep was punctuated by the rattle of raindrops on the roof of their tent.

They were bunched close together, the space feeling smaller with them upright than it did when they slept. Their meal was basic -- bread and dried meat, and Marcus was looking forward to eating well once they reached his uncle's.

"Another day's ride I think," he said, finishing his bread and brushing the crumbs to the side.

Esca nodded, translating for Liathan, and as it often did, the translation became a conversation, words passing between them, easy and incomprehensible as the cries of the birds huddling, wet and bedraggled, in the trees above them.

Marcus watched them talk, catching the word Roman, but little else. After a while they fell silent, and Esca glanced over to catch Marcus looking. Marcus was slow to look away and the air in the tent seemed to grow close and heavy.

They stored the food and bedded down, Esca wriggling himself into his blankets, moving his injured leg carefully. Marcus and Liathan following his example, (with varying degrees of care for their legs) and soon the tent was filled with the sound of their breathing, still shallow, all three of them awake.

Marcus could feel the press of Esca's body, warm despite the blankets between them. He thought Esca might be looking at him, but he didn't turn to check, a weight seeming to press down on his head, keeping him still as the sky above the tent darkened further into night. He fell asleep to the feel of Esca's eyes on him, and the sound of Esca's breathing mingling with his own.

The next morning rain was still falling heavily, and breaking camp was made awkward and slow because of it. Marcus and Liathan moved as quickly as they could, slipping and sliding in the mud, bumping into each other as they went back and forth between the horses. Esca, with his leg, remained under shelter until the last moment when they chivvied him out and helped him mount. He stood over them in the rain like a little lordling watching over his men. Marcus said as much and was rewarded with the sight of Esca's smile, a warm curve from ear to ear. "Watch it, or you'll get another apple."

Despite the rain, and the niggling urgency to reach his uncle's, the atmosphere was lighter now than it had ever been. Over the wall and away from the camp, they could almost be anyone, going anywhere, and the illusion of freedom was enough to lift all their spirits.

Liathan unwound the tent from where it was secured, and Marcus packed the cloth tightly, stowing it in his pack. The second he'd finished, the rain stopped, with a suddenness that had them all staring up at the sky through the trees. Marcus looked down the same moment Liathan did. Catching his dark eyes, and sharing a flash of amusement, easy and natural.

The silence was all the more perfect, after the noise, even the steady drip of gathered water from leaf to leaf, only seemed to punctuate it, and so the unexpected crack of a twig echoed through the clearing like a breaking bone.

Liathan's face went taught and Marcus froze, his only movement, the slow, careful reach of his hand to his blade.

There was silence for space of two heartbeats, almost enough time to dismiss the sound, when, _there_ , it went again. Maybe they knew they had been heard, for a second after that the air was thick with screaming.

People filled the clearing, in that first moment it seemed like the trees themselves had sprouted arms and legs and waded into the fight. Then the only body that mattered was the one at the end of Marcus' blade, clashing and parrying and looking for an opening, seizing it, and feeling the familiar rip of metal through flesh, all the way up his blade and along his arm.

The horses, well trained, and familiar with death, did not rear or attempt to flee, but they shifted their feet in the mud, sidestepping warily, eyes rolling to show the whites.

Esca, despite his injury, was the best off, drawing back into the space of the clearing and using his horse as well as his weapon to strike the men down.

Marcus disarmed his opponent, following through on the stroke, and then he was turning, spinning to meet the next blade. The world devolved into the strike of metal upon metal. Waiting for a chance, taking it and moving on to the next. He worked methodically. Falling easily into the familiar pattern of death and next death and next until the space around him was clear.

He saw Esca slash at the man closest to him, his entire hand coming off in a hideous spurt of blood. Turning, he saw as Liathan's blade was knocked aside, as the man fighting him began to bring his own blade down in an unstoppable arc. With a sudden flash of memory, Marcus flung his sword, the heavy weapon spinning in the air, and, with a twist of bad luck, striking the man with the flat of the blade.

In the next second Liathan had scrambled for Marcus' sword and was there to meet the man as came forward again. A flurry of blows and then sudden stillness. The man fell back, sliding off Marcus' sword with the wet, sticky sound of rent flesh.

They stood (Esca sat) in the clearing, panting and looking around at the slew of dead bodies, their good mood utterly shattered. Liathan walked up to Marcus, reaching out and handing over his sword, still slick with blood. Their hands tangled on the pommel and Liathan drew in a shaky breath.

They cleaned their blades and Marcus went to the horses. Esca was staring down at the man he'd quite literally disarmed, before killing.

Marcus had to repeat his name twice before he turned to look. Esca hadn't shown any squeamishness before now, but gaining then meting out an injury in quick succession could mark a man.

"Esca?"

Esca pointed. "The tattoo, on his shoulder." Marcus looked -- the cut of Esca's blade had torn the man's sleeve apart, and the curl of ink was clearly visible

"What of it?"

"I recognise it. A southern tribe, not from here."

Marcus shrugged. "People travel."

Esca nodded slowly, looking up and around the clearing before looking back at Marcus. "He's from Calleva."

**

The good mood they'd enjoyed for most of the journey descended into a weary paranoia. They went carefully through woods, alert for another ambush and watched the road for other travellers. The rain returned, heavier than before, as if making up for lost time. Everything dissolved into grey, the rain thickening the air, merging the horizon into the dullness of the clouds.

The horses' hooves splashed against the wet road, and the constant stream of rain cocooned them in regular noise. They didn't talk. Esca seemed distracted, his brow furrowing with each look ahead, and it wasn't as if Marcus could talk to Liathan. So the final leg of their journey was spent in silence, each of them wrapped up in their own thoughts.

The sun seemed to set early, thanks to the greyness of the day, and they arrived in Calleva late that night, weary and sopping wet. His uncle's villa was dark and quiet, but Stephanos was sent to wake his uncle, and the stable boy roused to see to their horses.

Their belongings were taken to be stored or cleaned, though Marcus kept hold of the eagle and they were swept into the kitchens to eat a hastily gathered meal of leftovers, the cook yawning a little as he set out the food.

"Marcus."

His uncle entered, Stephanos a step behind him, and Marcus stood quickly, moving to embrace him. He held on tightly, inhaling the faint smell of the scented oil his uncle used on his hair and skin.

"I'm glad you're home."

"Me too," Marcus replied, his throat closing up.

He stepped aside and went to the eagle, unwrapping it and placing it in his Uncle's hands. There was a moment of silence, Marcus heard the cook shift his feet against the flagstones. His uncle attempted to speak, swallowing once, twice, then looking up at Marcus.

"Well done. My boy, well done."

Marcus smiled back, warmth beating wings in his chest.

The eagle was returned to the table and his uncle sent for a better container. A secure box was brought and the eagle was placed in it carefully, then locked. Marcus taking the key and sliding it onto a leather thong around his neck.

"You still have your slave, I see." His Uncle gestured to Esca, who stood.

"No." Marcus shook his head.

"No?"

"I freed him."

His uncle turned back, raising his eyebrow. "You freed him."

"He saved my life. He saved the eagle."

His uncle looked at him silently for a second. "And him?" He pointed to Liathan, who had been watching the interchange. He also stood when Marcus' uncle pointed him out, more abruptly then Esca, the chair clattering as it was shoved back.

"He is my slave."

And Liathan's cheeks flushed, dropping his head to look at the table. Some strange impulse made Marcus add, "He saved our lives as well."

His uncle turned to look at him. "It seems the barbarians are friendlier than Rome would have us believe."

Marcus shrugged.

"You were injured?" His uncle turned to Esca suddenly. Esca's eyes widened, but he nodded.

"Yes, sir."

"Stay then, rest. Claudius will be returning to Rome within the week. You can travel with him."

Marcus nodded. "That's a good idea, we were set upon, on the way here."

His uncle's brows lowered.

"Bandits I think."

Esca moved as if to speak, but when Marcus glanced over at him, he had his mouth firmly closed.

"Well, all the more reason to travel in numbers." He turned to Stephanos. "Make up a guest room for the freedman. It's Esca, yes?" He turned to him, and Esca nodded.

"And the slave-"

"Liathan," Marcus interrupted, "he can stay in my room."

His uncle turned to look at Marcus, on white eyebrow raised.

"With you?"

"Marcus." Esca placed his hand on his arm. "Better he stays with me."

Of course, better he was with someone he could actually speak to. He looked at Liathan, head still bowed.

"Yes." He swallowed. "With Esca."

His uncle looked at Marcus steadily, but only nodded and left Stephanos to make the necessary arrangements.

"Tomorrow then." He clapped Marcus on the shoulder and smiled, his skin crinkling at the corners of his eyes. And then he and Stephanos were gone and the three were left with only the yawning cook for company.

Marcus looked over at Liathan, still standing by the table. "You'll explain to him?"

Esca nodded.

"Then I'm going to sleep."

"You barely ate."

He shrugged. "I'm tired." Marcus took the box, setting it against his hip and carrying it towards the door.

"Marcus."

He turned back. Esca's hand was stretched out towards him.

The cook yawned again suddenly, and Esca let his hand drop. "I'll see you in the morning?"

"Of course," Marcus said, and he left.

Despite the stress of the journey, and the unsettling feeling of loneliness in his empty bed, Marcus slept well that night, the sense of being _home_ permeating his sleep.

He saw Esca at breakfast, but was distracted by Claudius' questions, and a request, by Placidus to see the eagle, a sceptical curl to his lip. Marcus watched his face as he unlocked the case, lifting the eagle carefully out of the case.

"You really did it."

"You thought I was lying?" Marcus asked lightly, replacing the eagle, and he hid a smile as Placidus scrambled to reply without giving offence. He glanced up to catch Esca's eyes, but Esca wasn't looking, the frown back on his face as he watched the others.

Marcus spent a lot of time with his uncle and Claudius, talking about the eagle and the repercussions the reformation of the Ninth might have. He told them about Gaius and problems with the Selgovae. "The Ninth will be needed," Claudius said, eyes dropping to the key around Marcus' neck. "It's a great thing..." His eyes flicked up to meet Marcus' and a faint smile appeared on his face. "What you've done, a great thing." Placidus, standing behind him, was slow to hide the flash of his eyes.

While Marcus saw him at mealtimes, Esca was busy a great deal. He worked at improving his mobility, much as Marcus had done after his surgery, and Liathan was there to help him. They seemed to have smoothed over whatever roughness was left from Liathan's abandonment north of the wall, and Marcus would often see them walking through the fields behind the house, Esca's steps slow but sure.

Liathan took on the duties Esca had once done. Stephanos oversaw his training, seeing to it that he was taught to understand a range of orders.

Marcus would rise early each day and use the baths. He was usually the first in the household to do so, and while the chill of early mornings would sometimes make his knee ache, he liked the solitude, the chance to wake slowly.

Maybe his sleepiness was to blame for the fact that he didn't notice someone was there one early morning, rising just after the birds had started to sing.

He'd entered the baths obliviously, stripped down to his under things, waves of warmth thickening the air, then paused by the pillars. Voices echoed strangely in the baths, the internal walls smooth and tiled, and Marcus could hear the voices clear as if they were speaking beside him.

He couldn't understand.

They had other slaves. It was possible it could be someone else. But he knew. Even before he looked and saw the back of Esca's head, pale ears sticking out sharply since his hair was wet and slicked back. And sitting below from him, Liathan, pale skin marked with dark lines, tattoos seen clearly now, not covered with dirt or clothes.

Esca had a towel around his shoulders, but underneath it Marcus could see the thin, dark lines creeping round to circle his shoulder.

They fit together.

Marcus was gripping the pillar tightly, stone cutting into his hand.

Liathan moved back and forth regularly and it took Marcus a moment (a cold, painful moment) to realise he was working on Esca's leg. Smoothing the muscles that had grown tense and uncomfortable with the injury.

Esca said something, and Liathan tilted his head up, amusement in the shine of his eyes.

Marcus ducked back, pressing his forehead against the pillar. He was breathing heavily, could hear the rasp of each breath as he drew it in.

He stumbled backwards, wincing as he struck a bench behind him, and set it rocking loudly on its feet. The talking stopped, and Marcus turned and fled.

He stayed with his uncle and the others most of the day. Then went for a solitary ride into the evening. Long enough that the sun came down and he had to return to his Uncle's lands for fear of attack.

He was aching and sweaty by the time he returned, his knee protesting the return to the saddle and as he dismounted, his leg buckled and he almost fell. He grabbed hold of the reins to keep himself upright, the horse whinnying softly, as tired as he was.

The stable boy moved to approach, but a voice came out of the darkness.

"I've got him."

Marcus jerked, and twisted his head to look, forced to keep his feet rooted until his leg was ready, and it took a moment for Esca to step into his vision, moving round from the shadow of the stable wall, towards him.

His face was only half lit by the strange, flickering light from the lamps in the stables, most of it thrown into shadow.

"You were away a long time."

He moved forwards and reached for Marcus' arm. Short of falling to the floor, there was no way Marcus could escape. He let Esca pull him round and support him as they began to walk.

Marcus nodded, gritting his teeth against the pain in his knee, glad of the excuse not to talk.

"I would have gone riding with you, if you wanted."

Marcus shrugged.

"Or Liathan." And there was a slight lilt to his voice, an invitation to joke about Liathan's less than stellar riding skills.

"I wanted to go alone."

Esca was silent the next few paces. Passing the villa and nodding to someone in the darkness, Marcus only recognising him when he looked back, moon glancing off his shaved head.

He jerked his head back to look at the path.

Esca's grip tightened for a second around Marcus' back, but he didn't speak.

Marcus slowed as they entered the baths, the rooms lit by a few lamps, the low-light only a little brighter than the stables. They were empty, the attendants having gone to bed hours ago.

Once inside and led to a bench, Marcus turned to look up at Esca. "Than you for the-"

Esca was taking off his tunic.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm not going to leave you here to drown," Esca replied, nodding at his leg.

"I can, there are slaves." He looked about, hoping one late-stayed would appear.

"And I was one not so long ago, I still remember how it works." Esca hesitated, cloth bunched in his hands. "Unless you don't want me to..."

 _Yes, no. Yes. I want. I don't know what I want. No, I really do know what I want._

"Esca." His voice was rough, and he couldn't get anything else out.

After a second of watching his face in the semi-dark, Esca pulled the tunic up and over his head.

"Come on." He drew Marcus directly to the warmer rooms. "The heat will be better for your leg."

Marcus' shambling walk was only half due to his knee, half due to the slick mix of memory and jealousy boiling in his gut.

He was better than this. He was a better man than this.

His grip on Esca was tight, must have been almost painful, but Esca bore it silently, leading him to a bench and helping him sit, then stretch out, lying face down on the surface.

Esca drew away slowly, touch lingering on Marcus' skin. Then the heat in the room surged as he replenished the coals, and returned with oil to rub into Marcus' leg. A half-hysterical laugh in Marcus' throat at the awful symmetry of it.

Esca's hands on his muscles were wonderful and painful, and he hissed, breath catching as Esca kneaded the pain right out of his limbs. Marcus could hear Esca's breathing over the hiss of the coals, gradually growing heavier as he worked.

Slowly the heat and the rough glide of Esca's hands on his body relaxed him into a lethargic dreaminess, and time stretched and slipped away. Too soon Esca was pulling him upright to, walk, easier now, through the rest of the baths, sweating the dirt out from his skin.

By the time they left the final chamber he was almost asleep standing up.

The night air was bracing after the warmth, and he stood, blinking for a moment as the sleepiness was cleared a little.

He walked to his room unaided, Esca staying close beside him.

They halted outside, and his tongue was slow to navigate the words to invite Esca in, Tiredness and nerves tangling him up.

There was a strange look in Esca's eyes, intent, and Marcus, not expecting it, stepped back slightly. A second later the look was gone and Esca smiled faintly, "I should... Liathan is probably wondering if we drowned."

Marcus' heart beat hard against his ribs. "Yeah." He swallowed, dropping his gaze to the floor. "Tomorrow, then." And a second later, "Thank you." His gaze flickered up to Esca's then away, and he entered his room, letting the door fall shut behind him.

The next morning Marcus was distracted by preparations for their travel, and those preparations kept him busy for the next few days -- lists to check off and equipment to inspect, bundles and cartloads of belongings to pack up and secure. Travelling with a Senator's entourage took more planning than moving an entire cohort of legionnaires.

But eventually the leaving date drew close and in celebration, Marcus' uncle organised a feast to be held the day before they left. An entire cow was slaughtered for the occasion, as well as a host of smaller animals: chicken, rabbits, fish. Delicacies were brought in from Calleva, and the servants and slaves were working for days in advance.

The day before the feast, Liathan was drafted in as well, fetching and carrying, and Marcus caught glimpses of him looking harried as he rushed from place to place.

Finally the day arrived and tables were set out and soon fit to bursting, friends visiting from all over to see them off.

Marcus sat with his uncle, Claudius and Placidus, and Esca had a chair beside him. There were looks at that, at the ex-slave sitting with the masters of the house. But his Uncle made no notice of them, addressing Esca as genially as if he had been one of Marcus' comrades in arms. Which in a way, he was. Marcus glanced over to say as much, but Esca was looking across the table, and when Marcus followed his sight-line, he saw why. Liathan was bending to place another tray of food on the table.

"What's he doing?" Marcus frowned.

"Serving." Esca replied.

Marcus turned to look at him, "I see that, I mean, it's not part of his duties, we have..." He waved his hands at the others.

"The serving boy got into the deserts, gorged himself on them and fell sick."

"How do you know that?" Marcus laughed.

Esca shrugged, unsmiling and Marcus' laugh cut short. Esca likely knew the _serving boy_ better than he knew Marcus. After all he'd been a slave here for months.

Marcus raised his wine glass for a re-fill and drained it swiftly. He didn't look up at Liathan again.

Gradually the number of guests thinned, the food decreasing in direct proportion to those leaving. As night drew in, only the members of the household were left, drinking their wine and picking at the food left on their plates.

Marcus was wine-dulled and sated and he was feeling a little slow. The sight of Liathan in the far corner of the room, gathering up plates, and bowing his head as the guests past him, sent a flash of anger through his bones, hot and fast.

"Your barbarian seems to be learning fast." Placidus' voice was slow and smug and Marcus wanted to knock the sound out of him.

"He's not-"

"Yours? No, of course, he's the barbarian's barbarian." Placidus sent a false smile Esca's way.

Marcus' hand clenched around his glass, but Esca simply looked at Placidus blankly and the smile soon faltered and fell from Placidus' face.

The final course was cleared form the table and they retired to another room, the doors open to the night, the cool air feeling good against his brow.

"You'll have a heavy head tomorrow. Not an auspicious way to begin the journey," his uncle said, coming up to his shoulder. Marcus didn't reply, staring out at the gardens. After a second his uncle clapped him on the shoulder. "Come. I have something for you."

The desserts were brought out, his uncle presenting a plate to Marcus.

"These were my favourite as a boy," Marcus said looking at the pastries in surprise.

"I remember, you mentioned them when you were here last. I had them made specially." His uncle smiled, holding out the plate.

"In a moment, my belly's going to burst if I have another bite." Marcus smiled at him. "Thank you."

He offered them to the others, but they waved them off. Claudius making the same protest as Marcus, and Placidus shaking his head. "I never could stand the taste of almonds."

Esca took one, but Marcus saw, he didn't eat, breaking it open on his plate and crumbling it to pieces, lifting his fingers to his lips then brushing them free of crumbs.

Presently the elder two went to bed and a little while later Liathan entered and began clearing the plates. His face was strange and pale.

"What's wrong?" Marcus asked Esca, who relayed the question.

Esca's face then went strange as well, and he looked down at his plate.

Placidus stood, yawning widely. "I'm to bed as well." He swayed slightly. "Tomorrow-" And he paused, as if about to add 'gentlemen' but thinking better of it. Then he went, weaving slightly, to the door and up to his room.

Marcus leant forwards to the tray of desserts.

"No."

Esca stood, reached forwards and snatched it from under his fingers.

"No, don't. Don't eat them."

Marcus stared at him.

"The serving boy." He waved towards Liathan. "He's dead."

"The serving boy?" It took a long moment for Marcus to gather his wits. "The one who was sick?"

"Not sick."

"Dead, yes, you said. I don't see-"

Esca stepped close, bending down to whisper, "Not sick. Poisoned, Marcus."

Marcus blinked. "That's madness."

"Almonds." Esca raised the plate. "Easy to mask the bitterness with sugar. I tasted them, they're taste wrong."

"When have you tried them before?"

He pursed his lips. "I've had almonds before."

"Why would anyone poison the serving boy?"

"Marcus. They weren't trying for the serving boy."

Marcus just stared at him, half wondering why the room was swaying.

Esca sighed. "They're your favourites."

"Yes they are." And he made another grab for the plate.

Esca stepped back, evading easily and handed them to Liathan.

He said something Marcus couldn't understand. Liathan glanced at Marcus, then turned to go.

"What are you plotting now?"

Esca frowned at him. "I told him to get rid of them."

"You did what?" Marcus surged to his feet, grabbing the chair back to stay upright, the change in position making him dizzy.

"Better safe."

"I am safe. I'm safe here, this is my home."

"It's your uncle's home."

"You think my uncle did this?" He pointed at the tray Liathan held, halted by the door, watching the two of them.

Esca didn't reply.

"You do." Marcus' voice was hollow with shock. "You do think my uncle-"

Esca shook his head. "Anyone could have slipped something into the kitchens, it was chaos today."

"No, no." Marcus wasn't listening. "I can't believe you would- I'm safe here I'm s-safer here, than, than I ever was with you. Or with him." He pointed at Liathan again.

"Marcus." Esca took a step closer.

"No."

Esca reached for his hands.

"Marcus you're drunk."

"I am _not_ drunk," he replied, trying to tug his hands free.

"Please, just sleep, tomorrow we'll talk."

"No we won't." He laughed bitterly. "We don't talk. I thought we did. But we don't."

"Marcus." Esca was frowning.

" _You_ do." He looked at Liathan, then back at Esca. "You talk, oh you're always talking."

"Marcus." Esca's face had gone taut. "We haven't."

Marcus didn't want to hear the excuses, worse, the lies, and he ripped his hands free, shoving Esca away from him. Esca stumbled, falling, his head striking the corner of the chair with a sudden crack.

The plate of desserts dropped form Liathan's hands and he rushed forwards. He dropped to his knees beside Esca, helping him upright, then slowly to his feet.

"Esca. I-" Marcus looked, transfixed.

A cut had opened on Esca's cheek, a line of blood trailing down to his jaw.

"I-" He reached for him, moving forwards.

" _Go._ " Liathan's voice was harsh.

Marcus halted, his hand still stretched out.

"Go."

Liathan's eyes were cold.

Marcus looked between them, the blood on Esca's face, the hardness in Liathan's eyes. And he went, leaving them alone in the room with the pastries scattered over the floor.

**

 _[Animal death in this part. Slightly more graphic than what was in the movie.]_

 

His uncle had been right. The morning light cut directly into his brain. Noise sharpened the stakes the light had made, and his stomach was roiling before he'd even sat up.

His mouth tasted dead and foul and he stumbled to the basin, washing it out and trying to keep last night's dinner from reversing it's previous path.

He was helped into his clothes by a quiet and nameless slave. Thoughts of Liathan led to Esca, which led to more pain and he did his best to stop thinking.

He ate nothing for breakfast, ignoring his Uncle's sharp looks. It was little consolation to see Placidus was little better of, going green at the sight of the food, and retreating back into his room.

Marcus forewent bathing, (more thoughts of Esca and Liathan) and he went directly out to see the final things stowed and packed. Mostly he ended up getting in the way, the servants rushing around him fast enough to make his already dizzy head dizzier and if it wasn't for his Uncle pulling him out from the bustle to sit indoors, he would likely have been trampled.

"Wait in here. I don't suppose I can get you anything to eat?"

Marcus pressed his lips together.

"No, didn't think so. I will refrain from telling you I told you so."

Marcus stared up at him, his fine white hair caught the light from outside, turning it into a misty halo.

"You just did."

"Oh, yes." He smiled.

"I'm glad one of us finds this funny."

He leant forward. "If an old man makes a fool of himself, it's not funny, it's sad. I'm simply passing the foolishness off on to you."

Marcus waved his hand. "Fine all right, I'll be out later."

"I'll have Stephanos make something up."

"Thank you." Marcus caught his hand. His uncle gave it a quick squeeze before leaving.

Marcus waited in the darkened room, dozing into a short, fitful sleep. The noises from outside merged into strange dreams he couldn't pin down. He was almost glad to be woken by Stephanos, an hour or so later. The slave brought with him an absolutely foul tasting, but surprisingly fast working, concoction.

"Swallow it right down. Hold your nose." Marcus did as directed.

His head slightly more clear, he exited the room. Outside the final preparations where made and the travellers and their entourage were mounting or climbing into carriages.

Claudius and his uncle embraced. "Until we see each other again, my friend." And they embraced again, before Claudius ascended into his litter. Placiuds nodded to Marcus' uncle, still looking a little green, and mounted his horse, unsteady in his seat, before straightening and flicking the reins.

Marcus case his eyes about for Esca or Liathan, but he could see no sign of them.

"He rode out with the scouts."

Marcus turned to his uncle, who was staring at him, unsmiling.

"Unless you're seeking the slave, who is travelling with the others, at the back." And he pointed to the carriages behind. "I don't suppose you can explain the cut on your, friend's, face?"

Marcus said nothing.

"Hm. Perhaps that, more than the sickness will remind keep you from foolishness."

"Did he say anything?" A flash of memory resurfacing from the night before, and Marcus was suddenly afraid Esca had confronted his uncle over his suspicions.

"He told me he fell. But in my experience, men do not often fall unless pushed."

Marcus glanced at the ground, feeling even smaller now than he had last night. He should have sought Esca out, apologised... for what? He looked back at his uncle. Esca was wrong. "There are reasons for pushing."

His uncle tightened his lips into a thin line. "Reasons, maybe. Excuses? Never. If you cannot keep the argument with words alone. You walk away." Then the intensity of his gaze lessened. "Ah. Soldiers." He raised his hands, gripping Marcus on the shoulders and pulling him into his embrace. "Young men and soldiers. Everything is a fight." He stepped back. "Apologise to your friend."

Marcus opened his mouth.

"No. No. Humour an old man. The argument matters little once it's over. The apology matters more. So apologise."

Marcus sighed. "It's complicated."

"Oh, of course." His uncle smiled. "But you love him."

Marcus stared at his uncle. "I-I don't, That's not-"

His uncle embraced him again, laughing, squeezing tight enough to expel the breath from Marcus' chest.

"Ah yes, complicated. I remember times like that." His eyes had a suspiciously wet sheen to them. "Be safe Marcus. I will see you when you return."

Marcus, buffeted by a messy tangle of emotions, said nothing, stepping back and mounting his horse. He raised his hand to his uncle, casting his gaze over the house, chest tightening again, his heart feeling large and heavy in his chest. Then he was riding towards the front of the column, the sight of his uncle growing smaller and smaller until just a speck. The villa receding behind them, soon smothered by the carriages and riders that made up their caravan, until even the outbuildings were lost to sight.

They moved slowly, and while Marcus found their pace frustrating, his heavy head and sick stomach were thankful.

They halted for lunch, their late start meant they'd not been on the road long. But despite the short distance travelled, the mood was jubilant. The thought of Rome, many miles away, seemed somehow closer, as if their journey lay behind them, and Rome was hiding, just beyond the next hill.

Claudius descended from his litter to join them for lunch, Placidus dismounting also, he offered Marcus a plate of bread and cheese. Marcus waved him off, stomach tightening painfully. "No, thank yuou." Placidus glanced down at it, then set it aside. "No, me neither. The wine last night was potent."

They rested as they ate, watching the horses graze.

"At this pace, we won't be in Rome until next year."

Claudius laughed. "The roads are better closer to Londinium, we'll make better time there, though, we may lose it waiting for the sea to allow a crossing."

"Is it usually rough?" Marcus asked, "I've only been the once."

Claudius shrugged. "It mimics the climate here". He raised his hand into the air. "Some days perfect, some days hellish, some days both at the same time." He frowned. "I'll be glad to return home." He smiled at Placidus. "You agree with me, I think?"

Placidus sniffed. "Rome is the only place worth living."

Claudius laughed. "Spoken like a true Roman."

Marcus smiled politely, glancing out over the road. The sun was shining brightly over the green fields, picking out the coloured specks of wild flowers scattered amongst the grass. He stood, brushing the grass from his clothes. "I'm going to walk a little, before retuning to the saddle."

He did not see Esca on his walk, though he did find Liathan, securing a fallen pack to a carriage. He walked closer, glancing about to as he did so, there were no others close enough to hear. Liathan didn't notice him moving up behind, focused on the pack -- too full, and too large to secure easily. It slipped, starting to fall, and Marcus stepped up beside him, gripping it tightly.

Liathan froze.

Marcus shoved the pack up, heavier than he expected and he managed only to shift it a little.

"Tie it now," he ordered, not looking at Liathan.

After a second Liathan moved, hands slow, then faster as he crossed the rope over, reaching carefully between Marcus' arms, then securing the pack.

Marcus released it slowly, then, when it held, stepped back. He turned, but Liathan had already begun to walk away.

"Liathan." He didn't stop, and flashed in Marcus' chest. "Slave."

Liathan drew up short, so abruptly he almost stumbled. He did not turn.

Marcus' anger burnt out, leaving the bitter ash of guilt. He walked up behind Liathan. Seeing clearly the tense hunch of his shoulder as he drew level, then walking around to face him.

"Where's Esca?"

Liathan spoke his reply to the ground. "I do not, know." His words came out slowly and accented heavily.

"You must know." Marcus took a step forward. Liathan's head came up and Marcus halted at his expression. Anger like last night. Anger like before, across the wall, when he'd caught him looking at his sister.

He stepped forward. " _Roman._ " Marcus recognised the word. Liathan spat at the ground, then, pushing past Marcus, knocking him back with is shoulder, he walked away.

Marcus returned to his horse and mounted, oblivious to the movement around him. The bustle of the caravan getting under-way filled the air. A wagon moved very close to his horse, the driver cracking his whip loudly. Marcus jerked his head up and his horse reared at the sudden noise.

Marcus pulled sharply on the reins, trying to get him under control, but the horse reared again, neighing loudly and then stumbled. A terrible shudder went through its body. It began to fall. Marcus frantically tried to get clear, the reins tangling strangely tight. He tugged his feet from the stirrups and ripped himself from the saddle. Then his horse was slamming into the ground, and Marcus, twisting his knee painfully, threw himself free at the last moment.

There was a mess of noise -- other riders pulling up behind them, horses rearing, carriages clattering to a stop. Marcus stood shakily and went to his horse. The animal's eyes were rolling crazily and there was blood on the ground, one leg lying at a sickening angle.

He looked out dazedly at the crowd that had gathered. Some went to the horse, others pulled him back, away from the mess. And across from them all he saw Esca, his face white,the cut on his brow standing out darkly, his stricken gaze fixed on Marcus. As he watched, Esca's gaze slid over him, to the side. His expression shuttered. People closed in between them, Placidus calling for a doctor, fluttering hands, questions and worried faces blocking his view.

The horse's leg was broken, the caravan was pushed forward over the next rise and the animal was killed. They feasted that night, but for Marcus the atmosphere was bitter. The memory of the horses rolling eyes and Esca's white face flashing through his mind. Claudius had pressed his hand to his shoulder silently, eyes dark, and Placidus offered his condolences in his usual snide way. "Sad that a horse should fall afoul of a simple cracked flagstone."

Marcus had grit his teeth. There was no cracked flagstone, he'd gone back to check. The blood had been sanded and swept, but dark stains had gathered between the cracks of the, smooth and whole, stones.

Just bad luck, he'd decided. Bad luck the horses leg had buckled. Bad luck the wagon had come so close. Bad luck his horse had been spooked.

Bad luck.

His thoughts kept returning to Esca. He'd waited for him to come, to see if he was okay, but he hadn't, he'd kept his distance and Marcus kept thinking of the way his face had turned and shuttered. He remembered his uncle's advice, last night's argument. His thoughts chasing round and round his head until he could barely think.

Marcus left the fire early, eating little.

He did not bother making a circuitous route towards his destination. The caravan seemed big, but when gossip travelled, it became small. He reached the slave tents quickly, despite the reawakened stiffness in his leg after his fall. There were slaves still gathered around their own fire and he waved off the the few that made to rise when they saw him.

He found Esca's riderless horse tied to a stake and he made for that tent, flicking the flap open and crouching to stop inside. Esca and Liathan stood across from him, other than them the tent was empty, though there were other beds made up on the floor.

Liathan's expression quickly turned from surprise, to anger, but despite his frown, his gaze flicking down to Marcus' leg, the limp Marcus attempted to disguise. Esca's face was calm, the slash of the cut over his forehead marring the smooth surface of his skin.

The words that had sped round Marcus' head, stilled and faded away. They stood, staring at each other as the silence drew out and stretched awkwardly between the three of them. Marcus finally cleared his throat, taking a step forwards.

Liathan moved, putting himself between Esca and Marcus. Marcus widened his eyes in surprise, then, hesitating, comprehension and the grating pain of his own guilt.

He raised his hands. "I'm not here to fight."

"Liathan." Ecsa rested his hand on Liathan's arm. A dull flash of jealousy in the pit of Marcus' stomach. Esca continued in their language, then he stepped around Liathan and approached Marcus, stopping a pace away.

"I'm sorry," Marcus said. He looked again at the cut. "I'm, I-"

"Are you all right?"

Marcus blinked. "Yes. I- I'm fine."

There was a pause, Marcus could hear the sound of talking filtering in from the fire outside. "Do- does that mean you forgive me?"

Esca was silent, and Marcus winced, stepping closer. Esca did not tense, though Liathan did, watching them closely from the other side of the tent.

"Esca..." Marcus curled his fingers into his palm, eyes tracing the lines of Esca's features, the hideous spread of bruised skin.

Something in Esca's expression shifted. He sighed, "Maybe it's better this way."

"What?" Marcus asked, thrown.

Esca glanced away. "We're going to Rome. To reform the Ninth. It might be better for you to-"

"I don't care what they think."

Esca stared up at him, and then the blankness drew back over his eyes. "You don't, but I do."

"What do you mean?" Marcus frowned

"I won't be an exhibit. The tame barbarian."

"That's not what I-"

Esca interrupted, "You, no, but them? "

Marcus shook his head. "I won't let them."

"Marcus, they already do."

Marcus thought of Placidus' pointed comment at the feast -- _"The barbarian’s barbarian."_

"I... what are you saying? You said you wouldn't leave." He hated the pleading note in his voice, but he couldn't iron it out.

"I'm not." Esca replied, shaking his head. "I'm not leaving. I'm just saying maybe it's better for us to be..."

"Enemies?" Marcus raised his voice incredulously.

"Acquaintances. Marcus, how well do we really know each other?"

Marcus was knocked back a step. He scanned Esca's face for a hint, for some sign that this was a trick. some sort of penance. "I'm sorry Esca, I truly am I-"

"I know. It doesn't matter."

Marcus stared at him in shock, a terrible, fragile feeling in his bones. Like the ground under his feet had suddenly turned to ice, cold and thin and ready to break at any moment.

He looked over Esca's shoulder at Liathan. He was frowning, and while his earlier anger tried to reappear when they locked gazes with Marcus, it clearly wasn't strong enough.

"Esca?" He called and despite everything, Marcus hoped that he could persuade him where Marcus hadn't.

Esca said something in their language, and Marcus tasted frustration again, stronger than before. He could feel them slipping away, sand between his fingers.

Liathan stepped closer, replying, then turned to look at Marcus. Marcus stared back at him, feeling stripped wide, open and hopelessly vulnerable, the only language he had was the look on his face.

Liathan must have seen something in it, for his expression changed, firming with resolve. He turned away.

"Go Marcus." Esca's voice was soft. "Go."

Marcus stared between them,the slope of Liathan's back, the blank, unyielding look on Esca's face.

"Why?" His voice was choked. He swallowed, tried again. "Tell me why."

"Trust me."

"I-"

"Trust me. Leave, don't seek me out."

"Esca," Marcus pleaded.

"Go."

"No." Marcus shook his head, refusing to accept this.

"Please. You're sorry for last night? You want to make amends? Well this is it. Trust me now. Go. Don't seek me out."

Marcus' guilt was a rising wave. He took one shaky step backwards. "I don't understand," he whispered.

"I know." Esca paused. "You trusted me once before."

Marcus looked at Liathan's back.

He took another shaky step backwards, then another, then another, each step waiting for Esca to say something, to take it back, to explain. He took another step, the fabric of the tent heavy as it pressed against his back. His shaking hand found the flap and he pulled it open, cold air striking his back, stumbling through. The flap fell shut in front of his eyes, closing out the sight of the other two, the warm yellow light of the lamp. He closed his eyes against the hot prickle behind his eyelids.

He didn't remember how he made it back to his tent. Who he saw, or what he might have said. He lay there the entire night, staring at the tent walls until the sunlight pressed brightly behind them.

Over the next few days, then weeks, he ended up spending a lot of time alone. Riding out on his new horse before they left, or after they made camp. Sometimes just walking, exercising the ache from his leg, ignoring the pull of his bruises from the fall, as they gradually faded to nothing.

The rift between him and Esca was noticed by a few, Placidus raising en eyebrow and smirking when he saw Marcus turn abruptly away from the sight of Esca and Liathan talking, heads bent together. But he said nothing, perhaps the look in Marcus' eyes was enough to silence him.

Claudius noticed as well, asking after "Your barbarian friend" A couple of nights later as they ate dinner. "He does not wish to eat with us?"

"I no longer own him." Marcus replied, coughing around the tightness in his throat. "If he can't feed himself it's no concern of mine."

Claudius raised his eyebrows, but said no more.

Their talk over dinner was mostly boring to Marcus -- politics and the complicated yet, mind-numbing work of note-taking and list-making. But he forced himself to focus, pressing the noisy circling thoughts from his mind. He observed the way they behaved, it reminded him of himself and his uncle, a certain fondness in Claudius eye as he watched Placidus work. Marcus couldn't understand it himself.

He commented on it, one night at dinner and Claudius had turned to him.

"I have no sons. Two daughters, and I could have had son in laws, but there was a sickness, went through our household. They died, three years ago." His brow shadowed and Marcus made an abortive movement towards him, hesitating when his eyes opened, cloudy with memory. He turned to look at Placidus, gaze clearing again, and Marcus understood.

"Have you adopted him?"

Claudius shook his head.

"Not yet. Soon, I think. He's learning fast. He will make a fine Senator one day."

Marcus followed his gaze to look at Placid.us The man was waving his hands about in anger, a slave standing before him, head bowed.

Marcus raised his eyebrows, but nodded, levelling his voice. "I'm sure he will."

The days passed and the land gradually began to flatten out as they travelled further south. The roads grew busier as they approached Londinium, then continued along towards the coast.

There were merchants and traders following the same road. Marcus saw soldiers as well, and they would halt occasionally and exchange news. The eagle remained in its locked box, and when asked, they were simply part of the Senator's entourage, headed back to Rome.

They met a few politicians and noblemen as well, and some joined with their group. Safety in larger numbers. So their caravan swelled, more people, a slower pace. Marcus saw Esca riding with the others, talking to the Romans and the slaves alike, though more often with the latter than the former.

He had to turn his horse away many times, instinctively moving to catch up and ride alongside. Perhaps Esca noticed, for he began to make it easy to avoid him, staying on the other side of the caravan to Marcus. As the caravan swelled, so this was made easier and entire weeks could pass with Marcus only seeing Esca in the distance, or in passing. The sight never failing to send a flash of pain through his chest, sometimes edging towards anger, sometimes guilt, mostly frustration. But he didn't break his promise. He didn't seek him out.

Marcus talked with the other young men, a few tribunes, some freshly from the army. They reminisced together, many had finished serving in Briton and were returning home. Marcus was surprised how easy it was to fall into conversation with them, except for his trip over the wall, their experiences matched his own. Even Placidus was less grating on his nerves, trading tales of his own time in Germania, the growing unrest there.

"I've heard it's only getting worse," one of their new travelling companions said.

Placidus agreed. "It will be more than just skirmishes and raiding parties."

Marcus was reminded of Gaius and the Selgovae.

"The barbarians do not want Rome pressing at their borders.

The other tribune laughed. "Would they rather have anarchy?"

Placidus shrugged.

"You think Rome pushes too far?" Marcus asked, and the others quieted. Marcus, realising he'd put Placidus in an awkward situation, began to ask something else, but Placidus raised his hand.

"I think Rome should concentrate on her own lands, her own people, as well as her borders." He smiled. "Or perhaps I just miss Rome. Roman food, Roman weather."

"Roman women," the tribune said and they laughed.

Later, Marcus walked back with Placidus, towards the tents.

"That was well done, back there. I apologise, I did not mean to-"

"Trick me into saying something treasonous."

"That's not what I was-"

"No," Placidus interrupted. "No, you weren't trying to trick me." He smiled. In the darkness, Marcus could see little but the shadowed lines of his face. The smile didn't look friendly. "You're not a trickster, Marcus." He shook his head. "Don't linger in Rome. They'll eat you alive."

Over the next few days the road grew uncomfortably busy. Their pace slowed to a crawl, and they entered the harbour town with a mass of other travellers. The scramble for lodging was achieved in a surprisingly orderly fashion by Claudius' aides, and Marcus went with Placidus to enquire about the ships.

A third horse was saddled with them, and Marcus stared as Esca came out from the inn where they were staying. Esca mounted smoothly and Marcus scrambled into the saddle after him, Placidus still occupied with last minute orders at the inn door.

"What are you doing?" Marcus whispered hoarsely.

"Riding out with you." Esca's gaze skimmed over Marcus, to the inn door, and his expression darkened, Marcus glanced back, but all he saw was Placidus approaching. He led his horse to the step and mounted, riding up towards them, looking sharply at them both, gaze flicking between them both, but he made no comment, and didn't protest Esca accompanying them.

They found a ship on which they could charter passage, and the captain seemed hopeful that the weather would hold. They made arrangement for their belongings to be loaded swiftly. Placidus remained to make final arrangements, waving Marcus off. "I'll return for dinner, tell Claudius all is well here."

Marcus left him and returned with Esca through the streets. They went in silence at first, until finally, only a few streets from the inn, Marcus pulled his horse to a stop.

"I want to see the sea."

Esca turned to look at him. "We just saw it."

Marcus shook his head, turning his horse away and riding back the way they'd come.

He heard Esca wheel his horse about to follow, cutting off a litter, the carriers shouts fading behind them. Marcus headed down from the harbour, out of town and across the grassland. The path through the long grass was narrow and winding, the track down the chalky cliffs steep, and then they were on the beach, just sand and long swathes of pebbles. The sea was great and dark and grey. Waves rising as tall as a man and coming right in with the closeness of the tide. The sky was heavy and low, dark as the water, and the constant noise of the wind and the waves was a roaring in his ears.

Marcus dismounted with a leap, landing his weight on his good leg. He went directly to the sea, walking until the sand sucked at his feet. The waves washed over the tops of his boots, then his ankles, then in a sudden wave, up to his knees.

"Marcus!"

He glanced back, grinning. "I think I'll walk the rest of the way!" he shouted.

Esca was stood by the water's edge, as if afraid to get his toes wet. "It's cold"

"Of course!" Marcus turned fully. "Come on."

Esca shook his head, but he was smiling and he went against his words, walking in slowly.

A wave crashed around them, the water smashing against the side of his leg and up to his chest.

Marcus hissed at the cold, turning his face back into the salty spray.

"It stinks," Esca shouted, finally drawing close.

Marcus turned, eyes slitted. "Fish." And he reached out and grabbed Esca, tugging him closer, and pulling them both further out, stumbling in the sand and the drag of the waves. Esca's skin felt hot under the coldness of the water. The next wave caught them both, drenching them entirely. Esca shook droplets from his hair. "Marcus you're mad."

"A little, maybe."

He turned his head to Esca. The flush of his skin, the brightness of his eyes. "We won't return here for a long time."

He didn't say anything else, but the next wave they both turned their faces into it, the freezing press of the spray cutting into their skin.

They were laughing and choking and heavy with water when they limped back up the beach, collapsing in the sand by their horses, who looked down at them, unamused.

They dragged air into their lungs, panting. Marcus pulled himself up onto his elbows staring out at the graded greyness of sand, sea and sky.

He'd only seen the sea a handful of times. It had been strange living with Liathan's people, for many reasons, but he'd never understood how they could be so used the the sea -- the swell and crash of the waves, the calm suck of the tide on the sand. The changeability of it, the smell and the taste of it. It was a wonder to him, a great and unknowable thing and he could stnad and stare for hours. Well, if not for the cold wind, and the ice of rain and sea water. He shivered, looking up at the sky, which had started to let down a steady drizzle.

"We should go back." Esca's voice, raised to be heard above the waves.

He turned to look at him, still collapsed on the sand. "Together?"

The relaxed cast of Esca's face grew tight and Marcus cursed, wishing he hadn't said anything.

"We can say it was a fight."

"Why Esca? What's going on?"

Esca got to his feet, beating the sand from his clothes.

"Don't I deserve to know?"

"I already told you."

"No you didn't." Marcus scrambled to his feet.

Esca stopped moving. "Marcus... your horse. How did it fall?"

Marcus shrugged. "Bad luck."

Esca raised an eyebrow, stepping close so he didn't have to shout over the wind. "You really believe that?"

"I know it wasn't a flagstone, I-"

"Checked, yes I saw you."

"You followed me?"

"I don't think you should be alone."

Suddenly made sense.

"You think it was... deliberate. Sabotage."

Esca was silent.

"You think my uncle lamed my own horse!" His voice climbed high above the crash of the waves.

"No, no." Esca shook his head. "No, not him, I was wrong."

Marcus fell silent. The waves smashed and fell apart on the sand.

"I was wrong, I'm sorry. But Marcus. Think about it. The attack on our way to Calleva." He marked it off on his finger. "The poisoned pastries, now your lamed horse."

"You can't- That's not- It's coincidence. We were attacked north of the wall too, remember?"

"But not by southerners."

"What are you saying here Esca?" Marcus hissed. "Why exactly-"

"Would anyone want you dead?" Esca replied archly. "What have you carried in you pack since crossing the wall? What would _any_ Roman kill to possess?"

"No." His voice was a shocked hush, barely audible over the noise of the sea.

"To have the eagle. To have the eagle and present it in Rome."

"But who-" Marcus cast his mind back, seeing the past events again. "Placidus."

Esca nodded.

Marcus shook his head slowly. "No, he couldn't..." His words trailed off.

"He had access to the kitchens"

"Everyone did."

"And your horse?"

Marcus stared at Esca.

"He was in there, I saw him talking with the stable hand before we left."

"That could have been for any reason, _I_ was in the stables before we left, they were as busy as the kitchens."

"Are you saying you don't believe there's been an attempt on your life? _Three_ attempts on your life?

Marcus shook his head slowly "But we can't accuse him unless we are sure, unless we have proof."

Esca nodded. "Which is why we must stay apart."

"What?" Marcus scrunched his face in confusion.

"This way I can watch, people will not expect me to care, they may even try and rope me into their schemes."

"And if they decide you're a liability and try to kill you before me?" Marcus shouted. "What then."

"Marcus." Esca reached for him. "They won't."

"How do you know? You've such experience in trying to kill me have you?"

"Marcus-"

"No, no, this is stupid." He turned his hands in Esca's grip, until he was the one holding on. "Together, that's how we got the eagle, and together is how we'll keep it." He had a sudden cold thought, like the rainwater trickling down his back and he let Esca go. "Unless... there is some other reason..."

"What do you mean?"

"You and Liathan are always together."

"That's not- What are you accusing me of?"

Marcus stepped back. "Nothing. A man has full ownership over his slave, and as I said before, he's as much your as he is mine. More in fact."

"I would never-"

"Even if he wanted you to?"

"He, he doesn't."

"Are you sure?"

"It doesn't matter. We're not talking about Liathan."

Marcus stared at him. "Yes we are."

"No, Marcus that's not what this is- It's safer this way."

"If you really believe that, then you're an idiot."

Marcus turned away from him, grabbing at the reins angrily, his horse sidestepping in the sand. He heaved himself up into the saddle, and, not looking back, rode away from the sea.

The sound of the wind cut down to nothing once over the rise of the hills, and then there was only the sandy tread of his horse's hooves on the ground and the steady drumming of the rain.

Esca had to be wrong, his life couldn't really be in danger. His memories threw up counterarguments in his mind. Fine, it was possible that those events weren't a concert of bad luck, but aimed and directed at him. If that were the case, then Esca was mad to think they were safer apart. Mad and wrong and Marcus wheeled his horse about, suddenly sure he could convince Esca of the truth given another chance.

Riders appeared over the rise, dark shapes thundering towards him. Marcus glanced behind. Two more, appearing so suddenly it was as if they'd dropped from the clouds.

Marcus set his heels in. His horse reared and began to gallop. The riders began pursuit. The town was too far away, he'd never reach it before they reached him, already he could feel his leg, stiff from the sea, starting to ache. He had his sword, but little else. His only advantage was that they had no arrows, else they would have loosed them already.

He cut diagonally, fleeing them and heading on towards the beach. He spared a thought for Esca left far behind them, oblivious and alone. He felt no anger, only regret. That he hadn't convinced him, that he hadn't explained.

He cleared the last rise suddenly and the wind whipped his wet hair around his face. There was the sea, grey and vast. He rode for it, his horse's hooves striking the salty foam, then into the water, rearing and shivering. Marcus urged him further in, higher until the soles of his boots were licked by the wave tops, up and up his legs until he was submerged to his knees.

He turned on his attackers.

Their horses were ranged about the beach, rearing at the waves and drawing their lips back from their teeth. The leader urged his horse forward, and Marcus unsheathed his sword, charging him. They met, blades clashed. Marcus knew this had to be done quickly, before the others decided to brave the sea as well. He spared little thought for his safety. He'd bring as many down with him as he could, but he'd never win against four on horseback. He allowed a cut that slashed across the top of his shoulder, dangerously close to his neck, but brought him in close and then, slashing down at the leader's chest. Blood rushing up, burning hot against his sea-cold hands.

The leader's horse reared, flinging his dying rider into the sea, and Marcus grabbed the reins, wheeling him about and sending him crashing back into the other three.

Two were caught up in the mess, but the third managed to evade, coming forward towards him and he pushed forwards fast, trying to put Marcus on the defensive. Marcus wouldn't let him, met him strike for strike, but he could feel the heat of his own blood trickling down his back, and he knew he'd tire first.

The other two finally untangled themselves from the riderless horse and they began to advance into the sea after him. He was running out of time.

His wounded arm gave a sudden pull, pain shattering down the muscle, and his block was slow, barely catching the blade. The attacker, sensing victory, drew back and struck again. Marcus knew this time he'd be too late, his muscles torn and slow. He didn't hear the whistle of the arrow above the waves. But one instant the man was bringing down his blade, and the next his horse was rearing wildly, hooves in the air, arrow sticking out from its bloody flank. The horse reared again, then kicked. The rider, unable to keep his seat, was thrown off, flipping, head over heels, and crashing into the sea.

The horse turned and fled, setting the other two dancing with fear.

Marcus, used to controlling keeping his seat in the middle of battle, pulled the reins tight and drew his horse back, away from the others. Then he wheeling and charged the final two, smashing into the first with his horse and using the animal to bring him close enough to slash at the man's neck. Flesh opening under his blade and blood, salt like seawater, but hot, hot on his skin.

The last saw him coming, drawing his horse back from the sight of two attackers dead, and one flung into the sea, and he turned and ran, horse straining to be free of the waves, then galloping across the sand.

Marcus saw the arrow appear in his chest, and he slipped sideways, then off his horse, thumping into the sand.

There was a hoarse yell from behind and Marcus had to pull on the reins suddenly, his horse dancing out of the way of the horse-less attacker. Marcus retreated back onto the beach. "Why are you doing this?" he shouted.

The man didn't answer, slashing and trying to bring him down. Marcus kept his horse out of reach, knowing he had the upper hand.

"Just tell me why. Who paid you?"

The man grinned mirthlessly, baring his teeth, then threw his blade directly at Marcus' head. Marcus ducked, feeling the passage of the blade as it cleared his skull. There was a whistle that he actually heard, and an arrow appeared in the man's chest.

His grin turned lax and he fell back into the sand.

Marcus rounded on Esca, riding down the slope towards him. "Why did you kill him!" he shouted. "I was asking him-"

Esca leapt from his horce, running forward and dragging Marcus to the ground.

"Esca, what-"

Esca gripped him tightly, squeezing enough to cut him in two. Marcus stopped talking and brought his hands around him.

"His sword," Esca whispered into his neck. "I thought, I saw."

"I'm fine. I'm fine, he missed."

Esca shuddered, his entire body shaking. "I thought."

"I'm fine, I'm all right, I'm whole. Esca." He moved back a little to see Esca's face, brushing his hand over this cheek, leaving a bright smear of blood from his thumb.

"Esca, I'm-"

Esca moved forwards, cutting the flow of his words short. His lips were cold from the sea and the wind, but his mouth was hot. He kissed like he was fighting and Marcus fell apart for him.

**

They took the arrows from the bodies and pushed the out into the waves.

"You see now, why we have to pretend?"

Marcus stared at Esca, the waves washing around his legs. "No! I don't see. Without you I would have died."

"They counted on fighting only one man, one. Not two."

"No, Esca please."

"Trust me, this is safer."

Marcus slogged through the waves, sand heavying his feet, until he was in front of him. Esca's eyelashes were wet and clumped together, his hair slick and full of seawater. Cheeks and nose red from the cold. His eyes were as grey as the sea.

"Please, reconsider."

"Trust me."

"I-" Marcus sighed. "I do."

He turned away, walking back onto the beach and to his horse. At the foot of the slope, where the sand started to become earth, he looked back over his shoulder. Esca stood there, watching him go, the waves washing around his legs.

Marcus rode back through the town, limbs feeling heavy from more than the rainwater. He entered the inn, and was directed to a private room to dry off. He pushed open the door, surprising Claudius and Placidus who were both sitting.

"Marcus!" Placidus stood, the reports that were balanced on his lap, slipping to the floor. Claudius turned to look, pale eyebrows rising into his hairline. "You're soaking wet."

"Yes." Marcus stared hard at Placidus, before turning away. "I'm going to sleep, I bid you both goodnight." and he left wet footprints on the stairs up to his room.

The next day his leg ached from all the cold water, and he was very glad there was no more riding or walking to be done, they boarded the boat early and Marcus watched the line of the shore grow thinner and more faint as they sailed away.

The voyage was uneventful, but Marcus was on edge the whole time. Esca seemed nervous as well, but despite the small quarters, he escaped Marcus whenever he came close.

Marcus passed messages via Liathan. The awkwardness from the first day had mellowed and Liathan seemed in fact to side with Marcus. But he limited his work to ferrying messages between them, refusing to get caught in the argument. Marcus,not wanting to put him between them, left off from pressing him.

The rest of the overland journey was spent in a heightened state of anxiety. Marcus was careful not to leave the camp alone, extra careful to check his horse before riding. He kept a sharp eye on Placidus as well but the man behaved no differently than his usual self.

Finally they reached Rome's outskirts, and Claudius insisted they stay at his villa for a while. Wash off the dirt of travel and rest before completing their journey. Marcus searched for a way to politely refuse, not wanting to spend another night within Placidus' reach, but ultimately there was no way to get out of it, he had no other contacts in the city. So he graciously accepted, deliberately avoiding Esca's eyes, boring holes into his back.

Claudius planned to throw a feast the next day, sacrificing a calf in honour of their safe arrival.

Early the next morning Marcus made his way to the baths, a grand building, far bigger than his uncle's, with many curved nooks in which to sit and rest. He was in one such corner when he caught sight of Esca, moving through the steam. Marcus glanced around, then, "Esca," he whispered, voice bouncing and echoing through the room. Esca straightened and, seeing him, began to approach.

He had a cloth tied around his waist, his chest bare, the dark curls of tattoos spreading over his shoulder. The scar in his leg was covered by thew cloth, the skinny lengths of his legs poking out from beneath.

He came and sat close, the press of his leg against Marcus'. Marcus could feel the heat from his body despite the ambient heat of the room.

"I'm worried." Esca said, teeth catching at his lower lip. Marcus watched the way the steam drifted about his head.

Esca glanced up at him, then reddened. "Marcus, focus."

Marcus blinked. "Sorry, sorry."

Esca continued. "I'm worried about the eagle, it needs to be-"

"Surely he wouldn't try to steal it here?" Marcus said.

Esca shrugged. "This could be his last chance," he said vehemently, the echoes snatching the words from his lips and calling them back in a feverish repetition. Marcus' heartbeat sped.

He wanted to leap up instantly and run to his room, snatch the eagle and guard it himself. Perhaps he should have a staff made, the eagle set on it's top. Perhaps he could tie the entire thing about his neck instead of the key. He could carry it everywhere with him. He shook his head, a half hysterical laugh ratcheting between his ribs.

"To have come all this way." He leant forwards, pressing his forehead to his knees. "All this way and have our enemy fight us from within Rome itself."

He felt Esca's hand on the back of his neck, the warm press of his skin and he wanted to stay there forever, to never move from this place.

Esca ran his hand up his neck into his hair, scrunching his fingertips against Marcus' scalp, tingles going down Marcus' spine.

"He won't beat us."

Marcus took a breath then raised his head and straightened. Esca's dropped his hand back to the seat. Marcus took another breath, the steam catching in his lungs. "No. He won't."

He stared at Esca, the flush of his skin. A single drop of sweat trailed down the side of his face, over the curve of his cheek. Marcus reached forwards, unthinking.

Esca drew back sharply. Marcus froze. "Esca-"

"We should..." Esca rose abruptly. "We should go. I will-

"Esca," Marcus said hoarsely, looking up at him.

Pain flashed over Esca's features. "Marcus. Please."

He whispered, before turning on his heel and walking away, the steam rolling and obscuring his body in moments

Marcus checked the eagle again before going down the the feast that night, locking the case securely and looping the key around his neck.

The feast was magnificent, strange dishes Marcus had never tasted before mixing with those so familiar his mouth watered. But he ate sparingly, picking only the most simple, bland dishes, tasting each carefully before loading his plate. He watched what Placidus picked and took food only from bowls he'd accepted.

The slave beside him brushed his shoulder as he poured wine, brushing again as he brought another tray close, As he bent, Marcus saw the flash of his dark eyes, and he could smell the scented oil that rose from the warmth of his skin.

"A recent purchase." Marcus turned to see Placidus nodding at the slave, who smiled demurely, dropping his head. He was tall despite the stoop, and Marcus was reminded of Liathan for a second. He glanced about to place him, but he was nowhere to be seen. Instead he caught Esca's eyes, sitting across and further down, their false rift creating a very physical one.

"Oh yes?" Marcus turned back to Placidus, a bland smile on his lips.

"His skills extend beyond the dining table." Placidus smiled, all teeth. "If you have such tastes." He glanced over to where Marcus had just been looking. Esca's gaze was hard to read from so far away, and he turned away from them as Placidus looked. "I imagine your bed has been cold these past few nights."

Marcus remembered the beach a sharp ache of heat and longing in his chest. He didn't look at Esca again.

The feast dragged on, and Placidus would not cease dropping little hints and jibes,. Growing more pointed as the volume of wine he'd consumed increased. "Is it perhaps that you simply prefer them young? You should ask your barbarian if you can borrow his barbarian." He laughed loudly.

From the corner of Marcus' eye, he saw Esca's head jerk up at the noise. He looked back at Placidus, smiling tightly and sipped his wine, waving off the slave when he moved to refill. The slave pressed his fingers, slim and light on Marcus' shoulder for a second, as if catching his balance, resting them there a second too long.

Marcus tried to catch Esca's eyes, but at some point in the last few minutes, Esca had gone.

He felt a press on his shoulder and turned sharply "I do not want any wine!" He pulled up short. Liathan's shocked face by his shoulder. "Sorry. I thought-" He spied the slave a step behind, he winked and Marcus looked back at Liathan.

Liathan whispered, "Esca says you must be... normal."

Marcus frowned.

"Normal. He is with the eagle."

Marcus gaze cleared, they needed proof. Needed to catch Placidus red-handed. Marcus controlled his urge to glance back at Placidus. "Yes. All right." Marcus looked over Liathan's shoulder at the slave, this time letting his gaze linger. He turned back to Liathan. "I can be, _normal_." He thought of Esca, drawing back from his hand in the heat of the bath house.

Liathan's face was confused as Marcus waved for the slave to attend him.  
"Tell him I understand." Marcus turned to Liathan. "Tell him. I understand," he repeated.

The slave came close and Marcus let his hand brush lightly against his wrist.

Liathan's eyes went hard, and he disappeared back into the shadows. Marcus thought about calling him back, but he stopped himself. This was what Esca wanted.

He rose, excusing himself. Claudius smiling benignly, glancing at the slave who moved a pace behind Marcus. Placidus gave them a far more obvious leer.

They retreated to an anteroom, the slave pressing Marcus up against a wall as soon as they were shielded from view. His mouth was hot, and his lips moved expertly across Marcus' mouth. They stumbled back towards a low couch, Marcus closing his eyes, imagining, despite himself a different body pressing him down into the cushions. Marcus reached forward, but the slave danced back, and Marcus' eyes snapped open, looking at him in confusion.

"I serve you," the slave said, and he began to lower himself between Marcus legs. The sight, should have been arousing, but it only felt wrong, and Marcus' shifted away, goosebumps raising on his arms.

"No, stop. I can't-"

The next moment everything happened in a hideous rush of movement. The slave rose, his face utterly transformed, hard and focused. He held a blade, wicked sharp and gleaming in the lamplight. Marcus moved on instinct, kicking him backward and diving under the slash of the blade. His leap turned the strike into a glancing blow, grazing a shallow cut across his arm.

He gritted his teeth against the pain, and spun to face the man, only to see Liathan appear behind, wielding a heavy stone bowl and smashing it down on the slave's head. The man collapsed, limbs in a messy, lax sprawl.

Liathan and Marcus stood panting across from each other.

There was a noise at the door and they spun, Liathan raising the bowl again.

Placidus appeared in the doorway. He took in the scene with wide eyes, blood draining from his face. Then he was shoved further into the room, Esca appearing behind him, blade in hand.

Esca glanced between them, to the man on the floor, back to Marcus, the flush in his cheeks. Marcus swallowed down the protests in his throat. Deliberately putting the slave from his mind. Focusing on the matter at hand, Esca, expression closed, seemed to do the same.

"I found him trying to steal the eagle."

Placidus spun. "That's a lie!"

"We know what you've done," Marcus told Placidus

Esca signalled to Liathan to lower the bowl and he did so, seemingly unwilling to release it entirely. Marcus knew how he felt, his own hands itching for a weapon.

"You've tried to steal the eagle from the moment we crossed the wall," Marcus said.

Placidus stared at him in shock. "You're mad. You're both entirely mad."

"Oh, and how do you explain _this?_ " Marcus indicated the slave, the blade fallen by his hand.

Placidus stared. "He did that?" He pointed at the blood that had soaked through Marcus' sleeve.

Marcus pulled his lips into more a grimace than a smile. "Of course he did, you paid him to. Not just at the table, you said."

Placidus shook his head, his affront turning to pleading. He raised his hands. "No, no. I had no idea. Marcus please, you have to believe me."

"I have to believe nothing, you were trying to kill me and steal the eagle."

"No! Not I. Him." He pointed at Esca.

Marcus stared at Esca in shock for a second, before bursting out laughing. "Esca?" He shook his head. "Now I see it, you're not evil, you're mad."

"No." Placidus actually stamped his foot. "No I heard him, this morning,I heard him in the baths. Steal the eagle he said. I heard him." He leant forward. "He's a barbarian, you can't trust him."

Liathan growled, raising the bowl again.

Marcus stretched out a hand. "Calm, Liathan." He looked at Placidus intently. "You heard him?"

"Yes. I heard him."

"And so you went to protect the eagle? Head him off?"

"Yes!" Placidus nodded rapidly. "Exactly."

Marcus frowned, "And then what, you decided to send this slave to kill me just on a whim?"

Placidus still nodding, froze. "No no no. I had nothing to do with him."

"You urged him on me!"

He stared at Marcus. "Because I thought that was what you wanted! You like bedding men! Your barbarian seemed to hate you. I see now that was a ruse." He glowered at them both. "You seemed on edge I thought..." He threw up his hands. "So that's why you were on edge. You thought I was trying to kill you."

Marcus stared at him, then across at Esca. "I don't think he's lying."

Esca frowned. Liathan spoke up from beside them, pointing sharply at the slave on the floor. Esca nodded. "Liathan's right. The fact remains the slave tried to kill Marcus."

"I didn't have anything to do with it!" Placidus shouted. "Claudius only bought him last night. For the celebration he said, he told me he was well trained and told me to point him out... to... you." His face filled with sick realisation, going even paler than before. "No," he whispered.

"He had access to the kitchen." Esca caught Marcus' eyes.

"No," Placidus said again.

"The horses. I told you he was in the stables before we left," Marcus said with dawning horror.

"The coin to pay the bandits," Esca continued, "both before Calleva and by the sea."

Marcus nodded.

"No." Placidus said again, straightening. "No, I won't believe it."

"The eagle," said Liathan.

They turned to stare at him, then Esca spun on his heel and ran form the room, Liathan went after and Marcus last, stopping to grab Placidus' arm. He didn't want to move. His feet dragging on the ground. "No, no," he kept whispering. But he finally allowed Marcus to pull him out, the both of them following the others with heavy feet. They saw at the end of the corridor, Esca pushing the door open, Liathan moving to the side. And there, by the chest that held the eagle. Claudius, rising to meet them. The proof was written all over his face.

"No. How could you?" Placidus pushed forward, his steps uneven, halting in front of Claudius.

"Placidus." Claudius held out his hands. "I did it for you." Placidus stepped back, out of reach. "The glory of the eagle, for you. It could be yours." He glanced between them. "Guards! Guards!" he shouted suddenly, voice thin.

There was a heavy tread outside and men filed the room, eyes wide as they took in the sight of Esca with his blade, and Liathan, still holding his stone bowl, Blades were drawn and Claudius opened his mouth, pointing to Esca, a terrible look on his face.

"No!" Placidus shouted, raising his hands and stepping between them.

"Stand down," he ordered the guards before tuning back to Claudius. "I don't want this," he said hoarsely. "Stealing someone else's glory?" He gestured back at Marcus, standing by the door. "Killing to do it? Lying? I never wanted this." He shook his head.

Claudius reached for him. "My son."

Placidus stared at him, at the sheen of tears gathering in his eyes, and took another step back. "I am not," he said coldly. " I will n-never. " He swallowed, then continued more strongly. "I will never be your son."

"Guards." He turned to them, "Secure him. He will stand trial for his crimes."

The men were slow to move and Placidus raised his chin, fixing them with his gaze. " _Do it_."

Marcus watched them lead Claudius from the room, the man looking small and sad, his head bowed.

"Marcus."

Marcus looked up to meet Placidus eyes, feeling strangely empty from the sudden turn of events. Unable to believe it was finally over.

"What can I do to replay this injustice?"

Marcus looked about the room, then turned, straightening. "Reform the Ninth."

Placidus nodded sharply. "I will do everything I can to see the ninth reformed, with you at its head."

Placidus swept from the room, following the guards. He paused by Marcus. "I'm truly sorry, I had no idea..."

"No, I apologise for suspecting-"

"You had reason." Placidus interrupted, he looked down the hallway to where the guards were leading Claudius around the corner.

Placidus seemed small beside Marcus, he could hear the hitch of his breath in his lungs, and despite their similar ages, Marcus felt old. He'd had time to familiarise himself with his father's loss of honour.

"It is not a reflection on you. All that matters is what you do now."

Placidus firmed his spine. "Yes." He nodded. "Yes." And he left.

Marcus turned back to the room. Liathan was standing by the bed, stone bowl still in his hands. Esca had pushed the chest with the eagle back into the corner and was sitting on it, his blade propped against the side. He pushed himself to his feet as Marcus watched, "Are we-"

Marcus walked forwards, closing the distance in seconds. "That's it? It's over?"

"I- yes. I think. Marcus what-"

"Thank the Gods." Marcus reached for him, pulling him forwards by his shoulders, bending his neck and kissing him roughly. He couldn't stop touching him, sliding his hands around his back. He pulled away, a few desperate moments later and pressed his forehead against Esca's.

"Esca, I-"

"Yes. Yes. Me too."

Marcus shook with relief. "Never again, I'm never doing that again."

Esca tightened his grip. "I don't think I'd let you." His hand skimmed over Marcus' shoulder and down to the small of his back. Marcus swayed forwards into him.

There was a sudden heavy crack from behind and the two of them sprung apart.

Liathan was standing over the miraculously still intact bowl, looking down at the cracked tiles of the floor. He looked up at them and shrugged, and widened his empty hands as if to say, _it slipped._

Marcus shifted his feet awkwardly, aware of Esca's hand still on his back. Liathan's eyes were very intent. Esca took Marcus' elbow drawing him back a step.

He said something to Liathan, Liathan shook his head. He said something else, and Liathan looked between the two of them frowning. Esca spoke again, gesturing sharply, and Liathan finally went to the door, back stiff.

"He-"

"He'll be fine." Esca's gaze lingered on the door for a second.

"Esca." Marcus forced the words out. "We don't have to-"

"Marcus." Esca fixed him with a look. "Stop talking."

And Marcus did.


	3. Esca

**

Esca watched Marcus move to the front of the line, urging his horse to speed past the others. His seat was very straight and very careful. Esca grinned. He'd heard Marcus blaming it on his knee earlier; it pained him to be in the saddle too long. Esca grinned even wider. Useful, to have a leg wound to blame it on.

He watched as the plume of Marcus' helmet grew smaller. The sunlight caught on the metal and then a flash further off, at the tip of the column -- the eagle, restored to its former glory.

The volume of riders and wagons on the road was massive. The last time he'd seen this many men on the move, he'd been a young boy, watching the warriors of the Brigantes and their families travelling to meet the men riding under this very standard.

The Romans did not bring their families along with them. Though, as with any other large party, they did have attendants who would cook and clean and mend. Behind them came the usual hangers on that followed any large military movements: peddlers and prostitutes, taking advantage of the superstition of soldiers and the boredom of a long campaign.

They had summered in Rome, waiting for the men to gather, for food and provisions to be bought and stored. For the reformation of the Ninth to be made official.

Placidus had worked tirelessly to further their cause, and Esca had almost felt bad for his earlier suspicion... until the man came out with some ill judged or superior remark and Esca felt fully justified once more. He may one day make a good Senator, as Marcus seemed to think, but he'd never be loved. But then, Claudius had been loved. The turnout for his trial had been great, and the shaking of heads and furrowing of brows had verged on the absurd.

Esca had wanted the man executed, but, as Marcus was still clearly alive, and the eagle still in his possession, there was little they could do. He'd been stripped of his position and placed under effective house arrest, confined to his villa and extensive grounds. Esca had itched to challenge the man, put a blade in his hands and meet him in battle. But that was not the way Romans did things, no, they kept the arena for games, for sport.

Esca's horse tossed its head, and he relaxed his grip on the reins. He was riding towards the back of the column along with the other members of Marcus' household: his scribe from Rome, riding in the wagon, and Liathan, currently walking on the other side, easily keeping up with his long, relaxed lope.

Esca angled his horse towards him. Liathan looked up as he approached.

"Not long now," Esca called down, using their own tongue. They'd passed Calleva a few minutes ago, and would be arriving at Marcus' uncle's house soon.

Liathan nodded, squinting up at him against the low Autumn sun.

"I can keep going," he said, and grinned suddenly. "I'll go ahead and wait for Aquila at the wall."

Esca shook his head. "I doubt your welcome would be as warm."

Liathan laughed. "It will be a cold welcome by the time these Romans are done with their resting and their waiting. It will be Winter before we see the north."

Esca turned away, looking out over the legionnaires, over to the eagle. The north, riding alongside the Romans. Again. He turned to look down at Liathan. "We have weeks yet, they move slower than we did coming down."

"They move slower than crawling babes."

Esca laughed, but the sound was thin and faded quickly under the tramp of boots.

"I'll be glad to return," Esca said after a moment. _Even under these circumstances._

Liathan nodded, looking back at the road, but he didn't speak. Esca fiddled with the reins for a moment, before heeling his horse a little closer. "Liathan, if you wish it, Marcus will release you." Liathan looked up, his face a pale oval. "You don't have to come with us."

Liathan reached out suddenly, gripping the reins and stopping the horse. The driver behind shouted as he manouvered the wagon around them, whip cracking above their heads in warning.

"What are you saying?" Liathan asked stepping even closer, his chest brushing Esca's leg.

"I'm saying. I can ask him to release you. We never meant for you to, to follow us like this, into war."

Liathan frowned. "You will stay, then? Into war?"

Esca swallowed tightly, keeping his expression clear. "I have made my choice."

Liathan raised an eyebrow. "Every night."

"Don't." Esca tugged the reins from his hands. "You have no right."

"Do you-" Liathan cut himself off, turning away and dropping his hands.

"What?" Esca snapped.

Liathan kicked at the ground, then suddenly, animated, turned back. His eyes were dark chips of glass. "Love him. Do you love him? Is that why you- Would you come with me? If I left, would you-"

"No."

Hurt painted itself across Liathan's face, there for a second, then he turned again, hiding his face from Esca.

"We have been through a lot, together, Marcus and I."

"And we?" Liathan looked up.

"You chose to come back with us, helped us protect each other on the journey to Rome. That's why he will free you, if you ask. You owe us nothing."

Liathan paled. "Nothing," he whispered. Esca opened his mouth to protest, that wasn't what he meant, but Liathan stepped away. "Do you want me to leave?"

Esca stared at him. Yes he wanted him to leave, he wanted them all to leave. Marcus too, leave the eagle to the other soldiers, leave it all and keep riding until the world was unfamiliar.

He should lie. Should send Liathan far away, to safety. Should cleave this complication in two.

He shook his head.

"Then I'll stay." Liathan nodded as if that solved it.

"You might change your mind."

"No, not this time."

**

The cohort camped a few miles from the villa, not wanting to destroy the land with the mark of their passing. Refuse pits and churned up soil, and livestock 'claimed' in the name of Rome.

Marcus and Esca, along with a couple of Marcus' centurions, rode out to the villa. Marcus' uncle was waiting at the gate and Marcus swung down from the saddle, hiding his wince manfully (Esca kept his grin behind his teeth) and they embraced.

Marcus turned. "Esca you know." They nodded to each other politely. "Let me introduce Cassius Donatus and Helvius Macer, centurions of the Ninth." The pride in that last was strong, his eyes glowing as he turned to his uncle.

"Welcome to my home." His uncle smiled widely and ushered them in, raising a hand to Marcus' shoulder as he came alongside.

They dined well and after they retired to another room. The fire was built high, chasing away the evening chill. A servant brought out a tray of pastries and set them on the low table. Marcus' uncle leaned forward. "These I can assure you, are not poisoned," he said, only half smiling, and he bit into the first, pastry crumbling back onto the plate.

Esca flushed, recalling his suspicions. The centurions, who did not know the specifics of Claudius' attempt on Marcus' life, looked between them blankly. The attempt at humour fell flat, and the pastries were left uneaten on the tray.

Eventually the centurions excused themselves to return to camp. Marcus went with them to bid goodbye.

Esca sat, uncomfortably with Marcus' uncle.

"Not the best idea perhaps."

He looked up. Marcus' uncle was looking at the pastries. Esca said nothing.

"I suppose they are no longer his favourite." He looked over, Esca said nothing. "Who can blame him," he continued, shaking his head.

Esca wondered how long he'd been friends with Claudius, what they might have been through together.

"Betrayal always hurts," he said, taking a sip of wine, his mouth dry.

Marcus' uncle was looking at the door through which Marcus had gone. "Yes. More than the blade, it's the hand that held it." He fell silent, then turning to Esca. "He is lucky to have you, and the other. The slave."

Esca shrugged awkwardly.

"No, truly. I have often thanked the Gods I took him to the arena that day. Strange, isn't it? On such random chances our lives can turn."

Esca nodded. Not sure what he was mean to say to that. Should he be thankful he'd been taken as a slave? Was he? He'd imagined a different life, for a while, with Liathan and his people.

Look how that turned out.

Esca stood and made his good nights. Marcus' uncle responded politely, but the sombre mood that had fallen over the both of them did not break. Esca carried it with him up the stairs.

Marcus came to their room late, slow with drink and warm from the fire. Esca did not turn from the window where he'd been watching clouds drift slowly past the silver curve of the moon.

Marcus walked up behind him, slipping his arms around Esca's waist and resting his chin on the top of Esca's head. Esca leant back into him.

"What are you looking at?"

"The moon. It grows. A time for new beginnings."

"The Gods bless us." Marcus' voice was warm against his ear.

Esca stared at the cold light. "Who's Gods?"

Marcus stilled, then drew back. Esca turned with him, reaching out and keeping himself within the circle of Marcus' arms. "No, don't-"

"Esca-"

"Ignore me, it's just tiredness talking."

But the moment was broken. Marcus face filled with shadows. "I shouldn't have asked you to come." He stepped back. "You can stay here, you can-"

"No. Never, remember? I'm not leaving you." He walked forwards after Marcus, kept walking right into his space. Words were meaningless -- running over the same problem, the same decision over and over until you second guessed your own name. He was sick of it.

He pushed Marcus back, hands on his chest, walking him backwards until he tripped over the low bed, falling heavily onto the covers.

"I saw you riding today." He let his voice fall low and rough. "Very straight, your seat, almost as if..." He bent, resting a hand on Marcus' knee and running it up his thigh.

Marcus snatched his wrist. "Wait."

Esca just used the grip to pull them closer together, trailing his lips over Marcus' cheek, pressing kisses to the curve of his jaw and along his neck.

Marcus' breath caught, tightening his grip on Esca's wrist. " _Esca_." Barely a moan, the sound of it, tightened things low in Esca's body. He swayed into Marcus and Marcus leant back, dragging Esca down on top of him. They kissed languidly, mapping out the familiar space of each other's mouths. Marcus, hands running up Esca's limbs, loosened bindings and drew him out of his clothes. Esca did the same. They kicked their clothes into the corner, and Marcus, getting his good leg under Esca's, flipped them smoothly.

"I know what you're trying to do," he growled, scraping the edge of Esca's jaw with his teeth.

"Trying?" Esca asked, more than a little breathless.

"Distract me."

"Is it working?" Esca asked, getting a hand between them, the slick heat of skin. He trailed his fingers down the line of hair from Marcus' navel. Marcus' breath caught, then as Esca slid his hand around him, exhaled in a hot rush against Esca's throat.

"I can't, I have to ride tomorrow," he whispered against Esca's neck. Truly they were both too tired from the journey to try anything too energetic, still, Esca grinned.

"There are other ways."

And he pushed Marcus up and slid out from under him, leaning over and kissing Marcus' protests away, a hand on his shoulder to press him back onto the shets. Then he shimmied down the length of Marcus' body, folding to his knees on the rug. Marcus raised his head to watch. Esca looked up to meet his gaze, taking in the sight – Marcus, naked and flushed and laid out on the bed. Legs splayed, the thick line of his cock, slightly curved against his belly.

If his men could see him now. The stray thought was more bitter than triumphant, and he pushed it from his mind.

"Now you need me to distract you?" Marcus propped himself on his elbows

Esca smiled softly. "I thought you found my expressions unreadable."

Marcus raised his leg, dragging his toes down along Esca's side. "I've had practice."

Esca turned his head and pressed a kiss to the messy raised skin of Marcus' scar. "You're distracting enough," he murmured, lining kisses up the inside of Marcus' thigh, then, moving forwards and licking a broad stripe up the underside of his cock.

Marcus choked on his next words. Hands tightening in the bed covers. Esca licked his lips, his smile turning, then he leant forwards again and swallowed Marcus down. Each twitch of Marcus' hips he pressed further forward, taking more and more of him into his mouth and down his throat. Marcus was making desperate sounds, and when Esca looked up, catching his eyes and flicking with his tongue, Marcus' trembled, eyelids fluttering.

Esca ran his hands up Marcus' legs to his hips, holding him still as he moved over him. Until Marcus was shaking and falling apart in Esca's mouth. Hands gripping the bed tightly.

The sight, the sound, the taste of him and Esca was wrapping his fingers around himself...

"No."

Marcus reached for him languidly, dragging him back up onto the bed next to him. Then Marcus's hand was closing around his cock, and the angle wasn't quite right, but the callouses on Marcus' hand were deliciously rough and Esca was shuddering and gasping into Marcus' mouth as he moved up for a kiss, eating down his moans until Esca was just gasping shallowly against Marcus' lips.

Marcus' fingers drifted over Esca's hip, sticky wet and that made Esca shiver, despite his exhaustion.

"We should..." Clean up, untangle the covers, move.

"Tomorrow." Marcus sighed against his shoulder, and Esca shook his head, but exhaustion dragged him under all the same.

He woke much later, the sourceless grey pre-dawn light made the slope of Marcus' shoulders distinct against the shadows. Esca slipped out from the bed, wincing at the stiffness of the dried sheets. He went into the other room to wash and dress then went directly to the stables. His horse whickered softly in greeting, and he smoothed his hand down his flank, saddling him silently and then mounting, he rode directly to the camp.

The guards there recognised him, but they made him halt and dismount and stand in the cold while they sent a runner to confirm. Esca stood waiting, ignoring their snide glances. The cold wind cut across the fields, lifting his hair and blowing strands over his face, he shivered. The message to let him in came eventually, and Esca rubbed the cold from his limbs, climbing stiffly back in the saddle.

He rode to the slave tents and dismounted, securing his horse. Liathan was standing on the edge of the camp, looking out, not at the moon, as Esca had been, but at the sun now breaking above the horizon. Esca walked up behind him, gripped with a sudden impulse to echo Marcus and slide his hands around Liathan's waist. Liathan turned as he approached, tensing, then relaxing when he recognised Esca.

"I thought perhaps you were a Roman."

Esca stilled. "They come down here?"

"Sometimes." Liathan shrugged.

"They come to you?" Esca asked, brows drawing together.

"No." Liathan shook his head. He looked at Esca intently. "He did not tell you?" Esca stared at him. "Aquila put about the same order as before. That he is, possessive." He glanced down at his feet. "He is, a good man. Aquila. I apologise, for before, I should not-"

"It's forgotten." Esca waved his hand through the air, stepping up beside Liathan, very aware, when they were close, of the height difference between them.

Liathan looked down at him, his face a strange mix of shadows and light in the silvery moonlight. "You are a good man as well."

"I thought I had no honour." Esca said wryly, but Liathan didn't laugh.

"Perhaps there is more than one form of honour. To those you..." He paused, then continued as if he hadn't. "...love. To those who love you."

"Isn't that the same thing?" Esca asked, words falling into the silence

Liathan looked at him, the shadows gathering in the hollows of his eyes.

Esca stared back, the moment stretching out in the stillness of the twilight, timeless, as if they'd stood there staring forever, and only for seconds. He shivered suddenly, the wind, flowing over his skin.

He stepped back.

"I came to ask if you were sure, about staying." Liathan frowned and Esca raised his hands." I know, you said, but..." He glanced at the sky. "This is your last chance. You could stay here, at the villa. You wouldn't be leaving us, we could return here when-"

"If you return." Liathan said, voice sharp. "You go to war. I know-" he broke off. "Those who leave do not all return. I know." Esca knew which dead he was seeing.

"We will be facing more deaths. We will be fighting our own people."

Liathan shook his head. "You are my people. You and Aquila."

Esca's breath caught. He stared at Liathan. "Then," he coughed to clear the sudden constriction from his throat. "Then we go, together."

"Together," Liathan repeated.

Despite the worries and fears that still chased each other around Esca's head, some weight lifted at Liathan's reply. And they stood side by side, watching the sun burn it's way free from the horizon and rise into the sky.

**

They made for the fort at Banna where they were greeted by a familiar face. Gaius Libo and his men had been transferred along the wall, making ready for the arrival of the Ninth.

Marcus dismounted and they embraced before continuing into the camp with the other officers.

Esca sat on his horse, watching until Marcus disappeared into the mass of Romans. He kneed his horse forwards, following the slow procession into the barracks. A couple of harried legionnaires and even more harried slaves were directing the unpacking, and Esca escaped as soon as Marcus' tent was pointed out to him. He would have taken Liathan with him, but he was already snapped up and busy unloading. He seemed content, and there were other slaves there with him. Esca left them to it.

He found Marcus' tent easily, the familiar grid like layout of the camp easy to follow. And he ducked under the flap, taking a moment for his eyes to adjust to the darker interior.

The tent was large and swept clean. Marcus' few belongings hadn't yet been unpacked, and the space was sparse and bare. There was only one, slim, single bed.

Esca stood, frowning at it.

The bustle from outside filtered in through the tent walls, the shouts of soldiers to each other. Sharp orders and quick replies punctuating the high spirited babble. "Move this here. Set that there. Where are the blankets? Blankets you fool!"

Maybe the tent wasn't ready yet, maybe they were going to replace the bed with one more suitable. Maybe. He went outside and began to unload his own packs, focusing on each simple movement, pulling his thoughts back whenever they began to stray.

"You. You there."

Esca continued to unload.

"Hey, I said you." A hand fell on his shoulder. Esca twisted, jerking back out of reach.

It was one of the legionnaires in charge of unloading, unfamiliar. Not one of the men from the cohort. "I was talking to you, slave."

Esca took another step back. "I'm not a slave."

The man looked him up and down. "Not a slave?"

Ecsa shook his head sharply, noticing the others working nearby, glances flicking between himself and the legionnaire.

"You're not a Roman," the legionnaire scoffed. "Not with that accent. And with no armour. What are you then, scribe? Servant? You can help with the unloading there." He pointed and began to turn away.

"No."

The man turned back, eyebrows raised.

"I'm not a scribe, not a servant, not a slave. I'm a free man. And _you_ can help with the unloading, _here._ "

He grabbed the pack he'd taken from the horse and shoved it in the man's hands.

Then he turned his back and strode away through the tents.

His anger carried him far enough that the legionnaire and tent were lost to sight behind him, but a few steps more and it left him in a sudden rush. That hadn't been wise. He knew what gossip was like in camp. Soldiers out of their minds with boredom in between attacks. That story would be around the camp by nightfall, and grown to immense proportions by tomorrow morning.

It could reflect badly on Marcus. Marcus who was supposed to lead these men.

Esca looked about himself. His feet had returned him to the camp entrance. What was left of the caravan was still being unloaded and stored. The gates were closed and locked, sentries standing guard above him.

He wanted to go somewhere to clear his head. Be alone for a short while. But where could he go? The camp was crawling with men. And outside, the wall? That was no man's land.

He looked down at himself. He still wore a plain tunic, simple clothes. No wonder the man had mistaken him for a slave. He'd been one for the past seven years. Did he even know how to be anything else?

He turned, looking over the camp, and as if he had willed him into existence, he saw Liathan, working just a short way away.

He walked over to him. Liathan smiled as he approached, but the smile faltered when Esca didn't return it.

"Esca? Are you all right?"

Esca moved close to him, taking an extra step, until their shoulders bumped. He wanted to drop his head and turn away from the others, hide from the whispers that were even now speeding from mouth to ear. He swallowed, keeping his neck stiff.

"I'm fine. Are you settling in?"

Liathan frowned at him, but nodded slowly. "Yes, of course. It's not like last time, on our way south. There are many slaves here." He nodded to the others. Esca glanced at them, then looked back at Liathan.

"You're not. You're not like them, you know that."

Liathan frowned. "Not like them?"

"I mean, you don't..." He shook his head, frustrated. "You..." He stared at Liathan, at the dark openness of his eyes, the confusion on his face.

"Esca?" Liathan raised a hand to his arm and Esca realised he'd been silent too long.

"Nothing, it's nothing." He shook his head, pressing his hand on top of Liathan's for a second, then stepping back.

"I should go, leave you to your work." He glanced again at the other slaves, beginning to notice their conversation. "We'll speak later."

Esca hurried away, but when he turned to look back, Liathan was still standing there, watching him, a frown on his face.

He went back to Marcus' tent. The packs were still on the horses and he unloaded the rest, ignoring the looks and whispers behind him. The legionnaire didn't approach again.

The day passed as he unloaded, and the sun sank, red and low, just visible above the spiked stakes of the wall.

Esca moved inside the tent as soon as he was done, pulling the flap closed behind him. He'd just finished stowing the last few items, and was trying to decide what to do next when he heard the tread of boots approaching. He tensed as the tent flap was jerked up, and then Marcus entered. The tension left him in a rush.

He moved forward, then, halting, glanced at the tent flap. He changed the direction of his hands, began to unbuckle Marcus' armour.

Marcus stopped him. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." He shook his head and pulled his fingers free, going back to the armour. Marcus bit his lip and held still letting Esca help him out of his armour. A line remained between his brows, but after a while, he began to tell Esca about the camp, filling the silence with words -- the work they had to do, the situation with the wall. "The Selgovae have been attacking more and more often. Libo tells me the numbers of men they've lost. It's vast, Esca. So many dead."

Esca nodded silently.

Marcus shook his head, but there was a spark in his eyes. "We have a battle ahead of us."

Esca's gaze slid to the side. Marcus frowned and, putting his fingers under Esca's chin, tilted his head up. "Is that what it is?"

Esca stared back into Marcus' eyes, seeing the light of anticipation dull out into concern. "No." He turned his head away, dislodging Marcus' hand, his eyes fell on, "The bed." He winced, he hadn't meant to let it slip out.

"The bed?" Marcus turned. "It's, oh." His eyes widened. Then he turned back. "I wasn't sure if you, I mean, if you-"

"I want to."

"Oh, good."

They avoided each other's eyes, awkwardness suddenly filling the air and Esca laughed. Running his hand through his hair. "A pair we make."

"It's new, I didn't want to..." Marcus reached out and caught his hand, drawing him in. Esca turned his head up to meet Marcus' mouth. His lips were warm and dry, a little chapped.

"I'm not going anywhere." . Marcus brushed his lips over Esca's hair and Esca closed his eyes. For a second Marcus' arms around him shut out the world.

The feeling faded. Esca broke away. "Have you eaten?"

Marcus shook his head. "I told them to bring a plate here. I should eat with the others some nights, but..." He walked over the the bed and stretched his leg out in front of him. "I command them, there must be some division."

Esca nodded.

"Will you tell me what's wrong?"

He didn't ever give up. Esca let his gaze drift over Marcus, the way his hair stuck up strangely from all day under the helmet. He way he held himself, even here, the tilt to his head, the spread of his shoulders.

"Just..." He searched for the words. "You are commanding them, as you say." He glanced at the bed. "Maybe I should-"

"Pretend to be my enemy?" Marcus said sharply. "No," he continued before Esca could get a word in. "We tried that. Now we do it my way."

"There will be talk."

Marcus waved his hand dismissively. "There is always talk." He leant forwards. "My father lost the eagle and the Ninth. You think I haven't had to deal with _talk_ before?"

Esca sighed, walking forwards. "You shouldn't have to. Not now."

"I don't care. I want to. Are you and Liathan the only ones allowed to make sacrifices? If you can stay here with me, with the Romans who intend to attack your home. Then I can deal with a few odd looks and snide whispers. "

He looked at Esca. "As long as that's all it is. No one's done anything."

Esca shook his head.

"... And Liathan?" He asked, eyes intent.

Esca shrugged, glancing away. "Liathan, is a slave. In some ways it's easier. I'm... They don't really know what I am. There's no reason for me to be here."

Marcus began to protest.

"No." Esca raised his hand. I mean they see no reason for me to be here. He glanced at the bed.

"Then they're fools," Marcus said, tugging Esca forwards to stand between his legs. He pulled him down, slipping a hand round the back of Esca's neck, his gaze very intent. A thrill of anticipation shivered through Esca's veins.

"Sir?" A call came from outside.

Marcus groaned, loosening his grip.

"I'll get it." Esca straightened, moving to the tent flap.

A slave stood outside, a tray of food and drink in his hands.

"The bed," Marcus called from inside, and Esca relayed the orders. The slave glanced up at him from under his brows, but, of course, made no comment.

Esca went back inside and there was a moment, when he almost left the tray to join Marcus on the bed, but the food smelt too good. They shared the food between them. Too hungry to talk. When they were done the slave returned with the bed, holding one end, Liathan holding the other.

"Tell him to stay."

Esca blinked at Marcus, then relayed the message. The other slave left.

"Ask him if he's being well treated."

Esca did. Liathan looked up at Marcus, then, catching himself, looked back down at the ground. Marcus stood suddenly.

"Tell him not to do that, not here. He doesn’t need to play the slave here."

Esca was silent, then. "He is a slave."

"Yes." Marcus frowned. "I know." He bit his lip. "I just mean...

Esca caught his gaze. "I know. But things are the way they are."

Marcus turned away first. "Just tell him." He walked back to the bed and sat down heavily.

Esca relayed the message. Liathan looked at him intently, then let his shoulders fall back and raised his head. Glancing over at Marcus carefully.

"Have you eaten?" Marcus indicated the tray, a little bread left on it. Liathan nodded, but hesitated.

"Take it," Esca urged, knowing their portion would have been a lot bigger than his. While Liathan ate, Marcus began to clean and check his weapons and after a moment, Esca turned to their belongings, sorting out clothes that needed washing or mending.

They didn't speak, and it should have been more awkward. But strangely it felt comforting, reminding Esca of their return from the wall to Calleva. Just the three of them and the Summer sun.

**

The days passed. Esca spent some time with Liathan, helping out occasionally with his jobs, but while Liathan didn't mind his company, he could tell the other slaves found his presence stifling. More of his time was spent with Marcus' scribe, going over lists and more lists -- food and clothing and repairs and the minutia of keeping a cohort running. He didn't involve himself in the campaign and Marcus didn't ask him to, though he would tell him some things when they retired to their tent, whispered in the darkness, or, waving his bread about to illustrate as they ate dinner. His eyes would glitter with a strange burning Esca had never seen before. This then was the Centurion Aquila.

Esca preferred the other days, when Liathan was nominally serving them, though in reality he would stay and eat. Esca tested him on his Latin, gradually improving. And they both laughed at Marcus' halting attempts to speak in their tongue.

While Esca wasn't included in the military planning, by their second week at the wall, he could tell something was brewing. Armour was tested and repaired, polished to a shine. Weapons were taken out and sharpened. The drills became more regular and lasted longer. The looks Esca received grew in sharpness. He began to avoid being out in the camp after sunset.

He held Marcus tightly at nights, fingers pressing bruises into his skin, following them with his mouth, his teeth. Marcus allowed it, and Esca began to wake with Marcus' limbs thrown over him, arm secure over his chest, legs tangled with the covers.

One day, the first that felt truly wintry, a sharp bite to the air, Esca left the warmth of the tent, finishing with Marcus' scribe and going in search of the man himself. A chill wind was blowing down from the north, whipping across the tents, grabbing any unsecured cloth or paper and snatching it from cold fingers to fly above their heads.

Esca walked through the camp towards the centurion's tent. The eyes that met his were hard, one soldier going so far as to spit on the ground beside his boot.

Esca sidestepped and kept going.

The legionnaires outside the tent looked up as he approached, and when he reached for the tent flap, they moved forwards to block his way.

"Hey, you can't go in there."

Esca stepped back. "I need to see M-Centurion Aquila."

"Centurions only."

"Then send a message inside."

"Sorry. Can't." He shrugged, not sounding sorry at all.

Esca stared at him, counting backwards from ten in his head.

"Problem here?" A stern voice came from behind. Esca turned to see Libo approach. The legionnaires scrambled to salute.

"No problem sir."

Libo didn't answer. He shot a sharp glance at Esca, then ducked under as one of the legionnaires held the tent flap open for him.

Esca refused to leave, settling in for a long wait. The legionnaires didn't look back at him, standing to attention, postures pointedly straight, eyes focused above his head.

A moment later the flap moved and Marcus came out.

"Libo said you wanted me?" He smiled, but the expression was distracted.

"He did?" Esca raised his eyebrows.

Marcus frowned, focusing "Yes. Was he wrong?"

"No, no." Esca glanced at the legionnaires by the tent. "I..." He looked back at Marcus. "We finished going over the reports. I-" He broke off again, this time hearing the rapid sound of footsteps approaching. They both turned. The noisy feet belonged to a messenger from the wall, he skidded to a stop, gravel spraying over Esca's toes.

"Sir." He saluted. "The scouts have returned. The enemy's on the move."

Marcus stepped forwards. "Now?" Already?" His fist clenched by his side. "How far?"

"Two hours march."

Marcus swore harshly, turning away. Esca almost reached for him, but Marcus was turning back before he could. "Find Macer, tell him to ready his men." The messenger scrambled off. Marcus turned to re-enter the tent. He halted, turning back to Esca

"Did you- Was it important?"

"No." Esca shook his head, stepping back. "Not important."

Marcus nodded, but his eyes were already straying, looking over Esca, at the camp. "All right."

Esca stepped back. "Of course."

And then Marcus was looking at him, looking only at him. "I won't leave without-"

"I know," Esca interrupted. He didn't look at the legionnaires. Lowered his voice. "I know. Go."

And he turned, walking away before Marcus could.

Each step felt heavier than the first and by the time he reached the tent he barely made it to the bed before collapsing on it. This was it. It was really happening.

The weeks riding up the this hadn't prepared him for the storm of feelings in his chest. He breathed shallow, quick pants through his mouth. How could he let this happen? Let these Romans march into his home and cut down his people.

Liathan's words came back to him. _"You are my people, you and Aquila."_

And Marcus would be at the front. That was the man he was. At the front and this time he'd only have Romans to stand beside him.

Esca let his eyes fall shut, the edges of them feeling salted and raw.

He was afraid.

He waited in the tent, listening to the noise of the camp rise behind the tent walls.

Finally, when he felt he could stand without running to Marcus and pulling him off his horse, or pulling himself on beside him. He stood and left the tent. Outside was ordered chaos, and Esca kept well out of everyone’s way.

He reached the gates in time to see them open, the men gathered in neat blocks began to troop out.

Marcus was talking with the other centurions. As Esca watched, he saw Marcus kept glancing about every few minutes, and he stepped forwards into his line of sight. Marcus saw him the next time he looked up and the slope of his shoulders eased.

Soon after that he nodded to the Centurions, clapping each on the shoulder then leaving them to mount up and see to their men.

Esca approached.

"Libo will remain here." Marcus began as soon as he was close enough. "The scouts say this isn't the entire force. It should be, we should..." He raised his hand to his brow, brushing his fingers through his short hair. "We have superior numbers." He turned to look at the legionnaires massed behind him and that fiery glint seemed reflected sunlight in his eyes. Esca's chest tightened painfully.

"Be safe."

Marcus turned, eyes back in shadow. "I will return."

"Of course you will."

Behind Marcus' shoulder Esca saw Liathan approaching, leading Marcus' horse by the reins. He nodded his head and Marcus turned to meet them. He passed his helmet to Esca and accepted the reins and a boost into the saddle from Liathan. Then leant to take his helmet back, fingertips brushing Esca's. The helmet slipped and Esca jerked forwards to catch it again, passing it up more carefully. Marcus' gaze was sharp as it met Esca's and he shivered, stepping back. Fingers curling in against his palms.

Marcus straightened, pulling the helmet over his head, then turning to look down at them both. Liathan stepped closer to Esca. Some hint of emotion passed across Marcus' face, but with the helmet blocking his cheeks, Esca couldn't read him.

The sun was shining brightly, reflecting off his armour and he'd never looked more Roman than he did in that moment. The words Esca wanted to say dried up on his tongue. They stared at each other, long seconds slipping through their fingers, then a trumpet called from behind and Marcus straightened in his seat. His lips moved, but no sound came out. And then he was wheeling his horse about and riding away from them.

Esca coughed, sand thrown up by the horses hooves and his eyes were watering.

Liathan's shoulder brushed his.

"I would watch my mother ride with the other warriors when I was young," he said quietly. "I asked my father if this feeling ever faded away."

Esca swallowed. "What did he say?"

Liathan was silent, and Esca turned to look at him. Eyes tracing his profile, the dark slash of his eyebrows against skin grown tanned from the sun.

Liathan didn't look away from Marcus.

"He said no. Never."

Esca laughed, the sound broken and so jagged he stopped immediately, pressing his lips together.

"That doesn't really help."

"She always came back."

Esca turned to look at Marcus.

"He'll come back," Liathan said.

Esca nodded tightly. "If he doesn't, I'll kill him."

**

The gates opened.

Esca surged to his feet, so fast and so sudden after the hours spent waiting, that he collapsed instantly, grabbing at the crates he had been leaning against. It took him a second to acclimatise to the strange lack of sensation from his legs, lengths of bone pressing against his ankles. Like sticks, nerveless, wrapped in skin.

The sound of the arrival must have filtered through the cloth of the medical tent, as, a second later, Liathan appeared at the flap, staring wide eyed at the gates, his hands full of bandages. There was a muffled shout from inside, and Liathan glanced down, realised his hands were full and ducked back in. He reappeared a second later, brushing empty hands clean as he approached Esca.

Esca stared at the gates, forcing his legs awake. Soon wincing as pins and needles crackled down his nerves. Pain biting into his flesh as the blood surged.

"Prepared?" he asked Liathan, without looking.

"For scores of wounded."

Esca nodded grimly.

Soldiers began filing into the camp. The formation was sharp and neat. Their armour, the soldiers themselves, a good deal less so. They came in dirty, covered in blood. Stretchers with the wounded came first, the legionnaires, jogging as they passed, filling the area with the heavy thump of tired feet.

Next came those that were whole. Many of them, _very_ many. Esca's spirits dared lift.

Liathan shifted beside him. "I should..." He glanced back at the medical tent. "I have to help them, with the wounded."

Esca's hand shot out. "No," he added a second later. "Wait."

The cavalry was entering now, horses with sweaty, mud-encrusted flanks.

He scanned the rider's faces, one, two. And then, _there_. He felt a tremor go through Liathan's muscles under his fingers. He gripped tighter.

Marcus' helmet looked worse for wear, plumes missing, a couple hanging lopsided past his ear. His head turned, searching, and then he was heeling his horse through the ranks, Swinging down in front of them, fingers fighting with the blinding to his helmet. His hair was flattened with sweat, skin pale, blood, there, smeared across his brow.

The ground between them disappeared. Marcus' breastplate biting into Esca's chest. The scent of sweat, blood, dirt. Marcus, breathing against his ear, the thump of Esca's heartbeat, rattling against his ribs. He was shaking. Marcus was stone.

He didn't, he couldn't let go. Almost couldn't believe he was back, under his hands, and he was never doing that again, never waiting. How could anyone bear it?

Finally, his heart beat starting to steady, he leant back, moving slowly, the rough scrape of Marcus' cheek against his jaw. He needed to see Marcus' face but found himslef unable to pull entirely away. Marcus' eyes were very wide, pupils blown. His lips dry, almost white. Esca swayed forward back into his space.

" _Sir._ " The voice was emphatic, as if it'd been calling for a while. Esca glanced over Marcus shoulder to see a legionnaire standing stiffly behind him.

Marcus pulled his eyes closed, tension clear in every line of face. "A moment." His voice scraped raw.

"The centurion said that-"

"A moment I said!" Marcus shouted, eyes snapping open.

The legionnaire behind stilled in shock, then, saluting sharp enough to pull his entire body taught, he retreated.

Marcus' shoulders fell, leaning into Esca. But his grip on Esca's arm's loosened. "I shouldn't have..." He drew in a breath. "I have to go."

Esca nodded, mouth too dry to speak.

"I will return, as soon as I can."

Esca shook his head, swallowing once, twice. Finally, "I understand. After. I will be here." Marcus' grip tightened.

"I will be here, Marcus."

Marcus drew back, his stare intent, drawing a hot line into Esca's skin and down directly to hook between Esca's ribs, drawing taught with every inhale.

Marcus stepped back, the furnace of his heat suddenly gone, the line attached to Esca's ribs tugging sharply.

Liathan, standing beside, stepped back, letting him go, and Marcus reached out as he passed. unknowingly placing his hand on the same place Esca had only moments before.

No words passed between them, just a look, then Marcus was following the legionnaire away and an ever widening space opened between them. Soldiers crossed, it, breaking up the distance until Marcus was lost to view.

Esca swayed slightly, reaching again for the crates. The air was sharp with the scent of sweat and horse, the underlying scent of blood. He and Liathan were silent and still, the bustle of the camp swirling around them.

Esca turned and sat heavily, half due to his legs just dropping out from under him. He pressed his eyelids shut over eyes grainy and tired from the dust. Moisture gathering in the corners.

"Esca? Esca."

Liathan stepped in front of him.

"Help me."

Esca frowned, eyes flicking open. Blinking to focus.

"Here, help me." Liathan reached out slowly, and drew Esca upright. "Please." He gestured towards the medical tent, still gripping Esca's elbow and Esca allowed himself to be herded.

Despite the numbers being lower than anticipated, the inside of the tent was still a mess of motion. Esca's competent hands were soon filled with jobs, and the mundane repetition of binding and cleaning and soaking, and occasionally, stitching, gave him focus, gave him familiar channels for his mind to fall into.

The sun began to set outside the tent. The lamps lit within keeping the interior bright enough to work in.

As Esca worked he noticed many of the wounded weren't Roman. Captured prisoners were given basic care as well, though soldiers stood guard, or, where possible, the wounded lay with their hands and feet tied.

Time passed, in a haze, merging into the smell of blood and heat of boiling water. His hands grew tired from wrapping and binding and bathing. Holding wounded down as they screamed in pain.

The thick scent of herbs burnt to make the patients drowsy and dull the pain of the knife drifted about the tent. Esca and the doctors worked with their faces bound in thick strips of cloth, blinking smoke-salted tears from their eyes.

Finally most the wounded were treated, and Esca was shown to the corner where he began to clean the tools and set them aside to be packed away again.

A hand fell on his shoulder, and Esca, yawning widely, turned. Marcus stood behind him, and Esca stood abruptly, almost dropping the tools he'd been cleaning.

"You're finished here?"

Esca nodded, hurriedly passing the tools to the servant beside him, shoving them onto his lap and ignoring his irritated glare. "I must tell Liathan," he said, already turning away to find him. Marcus said nothing.

Esca, finally spying Liathan decanting medicine into smaller doses, walked over to him.

"I'm leaving. I think I will be able to help again tomorrow." Liathan carefully put down his bottles and looked up at Esca, then over his shoulder at Marcus. "Thank you. For calling me in here," Esca continued.

Liathan smiled, a slight flick of his lips. "It was nothing, we needed the help." His gaze drifted back over Esca's shoulder, before meeting Esca's eyes again. Esca nodded, clapped Liathan on his arm as farewell and turned back. He caught Marcus' expression as he turned -- strange and intense. Then Marcus turned and left the tent, Esca winding his way through the beds to follow.

He paused a moment outside, giving his eyes time to adjust to the darkness. It took him a second to make out Marcus, standing just off to the side. As Esca blinked after-images of light from his eyes, Marcus turned to face him. Esca raised a hand and brushed heavy, sweat-soaked hair from his brow. He felt filthy.

"I need to bathe."

Marcus nodded and turned away abruptly. "I also." He began to walk towards the baths, Esca falling into step beside him.

Marcus kept a double hand's width of space between them as they walked. They passed soldiers on guard, the general movement and bustle of the camp heightened with their leader's victorious return. And with all the soldiers stopping to salute, hailing Marcus as he passed, Esca couldn't bring himself to lessen that distance.

Each step his breathing seemed shorter, seemed more and more aware of exactly how much air separated him from Marcus' body. He found himself stealing glances sideways at Marcus' profile. The lines of his face, illuminated each time they passed a lamp. His expression barely changed and he didn't turn.

Finally they reached the baths, separating as assistants came to help Esca with his clothes and Marcus with his armour. Esca, with less to take off, entered the baths first, piling coal on the brazier and pouring water to fill the room with steam.

He heard the sound of Marcus approaching behind him, and his skin rippled with goosebumps. He wanted to turn, the need so strong it was already starting to ache in the pit of his belly. But he didn't want to see Marcus' hard, closed face as on the walk. The desperate burning need to see Marcus was sated with his safe return (almost, barely sated). That would be enough, if that was what Marcus wanted. He wouldn't shame him in front of his men, emotional and clinging and-

" _Esca._ " Marcus' voice was so rough, Esca could barely recognise his own name. Then Marcus' palms were on his shoulders pulling him round and Esca could read _everything_ on his face, read the longing and the desperation mirrored back and he didn't think, just pushed himself up into Marcus' embrace and brought his lips to meet his.

Marcus kissed him back hungrily, hand sliding down to the small of his back, fingers slipping under the towel at his waist.

He kissed like he was drowning and Esca was clean air. Like he wanted to re-learn every press of Esca's mouth, the hardness of his teeth, the curl of his lips. He mouthed hot kisses over his jaw, cheek scraping roughly over Esca's neck, then back up, tilting his head up and kissing him again and again and again.

Esca raised his hands up, over Marcus' chest and wrapped his fingers around the hard breadth of Marcus' shoulders, gripping tight and kissing back just as hungrily. Pressing forwards until he could feel the jut of Marcus' erection against his stomach.

They needed a bed, they needed a table, they needed... Marcus twisted suddenly, drawing Esca safely away from the brazier then flipping his legs out from under him, controlling their fall and landing on the floor.

His fingers were under the towel, loosening the folds easily then slipping inside, running his hand firmly down from Esca's navel. Esca gasped, rocking into the motion of Marcus' hand, head tipped back, arching his neck. Marcus bent down to kiss his way down his skin, the slide of his lips, painstakingly gentle. Esca could feel the way Marcus' lips trenbled with each kiss. Every butterfly press of lips more affecting than all the forceful kisses that had gone before. Esca felt worshipped, and the feeling was entirely undoing him.

They didn't speak. The only sound was the panting of their breaths, desperate moans as they clawed at each other's skin, marking each other, kissing and licking and sealing their emotions into each other's bodies, moving together, desperately, violently, until their rhythm broke down and they were gasping, shouting out and collapsing back against the floor.

The only sound was the panting of their breaths, and the slow hiss of the brazier eating through the coals.

Eventually the uncomfortable floor sent them to sitting, then standing, and the grime of the day's exertions sent them moving, slowly, languorously, into the next room to scrape off the dirt, then sit again in the steam.

Esca leant against Marcus on the bench, his limbs feeling heavy and muscles fluid. He didn't want to move. Didn't want to think about the Romans outside, the soldiers and warriors and the war that waited beyond the wall. He let his eyes fall shut, and listened to the sound of his heartbeat.

"If we faced Liathan's people now..."

Esca's eyes opened, and at Marcus' pause, he pushed up away from him, skin sticky, turning to look at his face.

"If we faced them now," Marcus said again. "I would not be able to fight them."

Esca frowned. "I don't understand."

Marcus sighed, his shoulders slumping. "I don't want a war," he said, and his voice was weary.

Esca reached out, placing his hand on the back of Marcus' neck, as he had, so long ago, in another bath-house, in another place.

"I know, Marcus." He'd hoped Marcus would come to understand his people. Would come to see they were not the savages the Romans thought them. But to realise it now, to doubt, suddenly, all that he had worked towards. Esca's heart ached. He could see no way out of the trap they had set themselves. So he sat beside Marcus, offering whatever comfort he could with his silence and his presence. He feared it was not enough.

**

In the days that followed, Marcus was kept busy planning the campaign. Esca barely saw him outside of the nights. To keep himself busy and distract his mind from circular, depressing thoughts, he joined Liathan in caring for the prisoners. Most of those that were taken were skilled warriors or noblemen – those that would be useful as hostages. Some, however, were simple farmers or clansmen who had come with their tribe to fight. They were divided into groups and placed in a number of tents, slaves, doctors and assistants rushing between them carrying medicines and supplies.

The prisoners were kept under watch, those that were well enough were moved to prisoner quarters away from the tents, and soon only those recovering from serious injuries were left. One of them, a woman with a kinked, broken nose and thick black hair, had noticed Esca and Liathan talking together in their own tongue. Within a couple of days the news seemed to have gotten round to all the other prisoners and Esca began to receive curious, lingering looks.

He was unbinding the wrapping on the injured woman's arm, when the she spoke up. "Are you a slave?" she asked.

Esca's eyes flickered up to hers, then away. "No," he replied, "I am not."

She was silent for a short while and Esca continued to unwrap her bindings.

"Then you are a prisoner," she said.

"No," Esca said shortly, "I am not." He unwrapped the final binding and looked at the wound. It was red and puffy. The skin around looked inflamed. He was worried it may have become infected.

"Then what are you doing here?" The woman asked.

Esca looked at her, eyes blank, then turned away, signalling for a doctor to come close.

"The wound," he said, in the Roman tongue. "I think it's infected."

The doctor bent down to look at the wound and then straightened, calling for water and alcohol to clean it out.

"What are you doing here?" The woman asked again as Esca moved away, but Esca didn't reply, acting as if he hadn't heard her question.

"Explain to her, we have to cut away the infected flesh," the doctor said to Esca, gesturing at the wound.

Esca focused on a point above the woman's right ear and relayed the message. She wasted no time on questions, but nodded grimly, and when doctor passed her a lump of wood on which to bite down, she fitted it between her mouth without a sound. "Hold her." The doctor nodded. And Esca, knowing what was to come next, placed both his hands on her shoulders and pressed down hard.

The woman bucked, though her shouts were muffled against the wood. And with each painstaking slice and swab, the infected flesh was removed, and with hot irons, the wound was cauterised.

By the end of it, she had passed out, eyelashes lying darkly against cheeks gone white with pain. Esca made his escape without any further questioning.

The next day Esca went to the tents again. The woman with the shoulder wound was asleep, and Esca was directed to the seat beside her, obeying the doctor's orders to keep an eye and see to her if she woke.

"Here." The doctor dropped a bucket of bandages beside him. "You can sort those while you're waiting."

Esca wrinkled his nose at the state of them, but he made no protest, sorting the strips into those that could be cleaned and salvaged and those that would need to be burnt.

The task was simple and mindless and Esca was soon lost in the motions. He didn't notice the woman wake up.

"You again."

Esca stiffened. "Do you need anything?"

The woman shook her head, then paused and nodded. "Water."

Esca stood and went to the table, taking the jug and pouring a cup of water and bringing it back.

"I am Una of the Carvetii," she said, after accepting the cup and sipping from it.

"Esca, mac Cunoval," Esca said, after a pause.

The woman's eyes widened and her cup slipped, spilling water over her fingers. "Cunoval? Of the Brigantes?"

"Yes," Esca said, regretting, for a second, the truth. But he pushed his shoulders back, and faced her next question with a calm face.

"What are you doing here?" she asked, voice hoarse with surprise.

"None of your business," Esca replied shortly and moved to sit down again, focusing on the strips of cloth.

The woman sipped her water, then, putting it down, she said, "You're right, yes. It's none of my business." She glanced at Esca. "But it's strange."

Esca tilted his head. "There are many things that are strange in this world."

The woman shrugged and then winced as the motion pulled at her wounded shoulder. "Many things," she agreed, nodding, but she didn't let the subject drop. "Still, to find one of Cunoval's sons serving with the Ninth, when it was this standard that-

"I know what has been done under this standard," Esca interrupted. "You," he looked at the woman, "do not."

She finally let it go, raising his empty hands and leaning back onto the bed.

Over the next few days, Esca found himself assigned to Una more often than not. And though she clearly wondered about Esca's place in the camp and how it had come about, she limited her questions to other things. They did not always talk, some days she slept, the wound slowly healing. But when she was awake, she would talk, sometimes tell stories to the other prisoners and occasionally sing. She was well liked in the medical tent, and what she lacked in skill, she made up for in enthusiasm.

"My father, he will not ransom me." Una said, the moment Esca came beside her bed the next day. Esca raised an eyebrow at the unexpectedly sombre topic. "The arm?"

"Oh it's fine." She shrugged, winced.

Esca raised an eyebrow. "Give me a moment." He went to the corner of the tent where the stores were kept, nodding to Liathan who was being kept busy as usual. He took some clean bindings back with him, and returned to inspect Una's wound.

"I'm the youngest of four," she continued. "My father is not rich. We joined the fight to pay off our tithe to the Selgovae."

"Tithe?"

She nodded, shifting a little as Esca peeled back the bandage on her arm.

"After the Brigantes were destroyed, the Selgovae rode in. Took up the lands, claimed them as their own." She glanced sharply at Esca. "The Brigantes were fair, they protected us smaller clans from bandits and from the battles between the greater clans. But after they were gone, the Selgovae rushed in like..." She raised her good hand, and gestured in the air. "Like the Spring thaw sends water rushing into a dry river bed," she said, her voice taking a lilting note.

Esca raised an eyebrow.

She glanced at him, and grinned. "I was to be apprenticed. My mother's brother's son is a bard with the Ontadii." Her smile faded. "But not now." The fingers of her wounded hand spasmed, stretching, then curling into her palm. "The Selgovae demanded that my father pay in battle." She shook her head again. "I forgot myself and I allowed myself to be taken. I shamed my family."

Esca, starting with the new binding, frowned. "How have you shamed your family? You fought well and you were taken hostage. It is not dishonourable, it is merely a fact of war."

Una shrugged one shoulder, carefully.

Esca glanced around at the other prisoners in the tent. And looking now with sharper eyes, he saw that many were young, like Una beside him, like himself, like Liathan, working across from them.

"The captured, they are not Selgovae?"

Una looked around. There were about twenty beds in this tent. She ran her eyes over the patients, then. "Him," she said, gesturing to one of the older men. "And him." She pointed to one of the younger. She picked out a couple more, then let her hand fall.

"The others are all here because of the tithe?" Esca asked.

"It's likely," Una replied. She glanced at Esca. "Why, what difference does it make?" Her dark brows drew together.

"No difference." Esca said, with a shrug returning to his job, and saying no more.

The next day Esca didn't go to the medical tent, instead he stayed with Marcus' scribe, making himself useful in what way he could, and, as the sun was setting, he asked for permission to visit the stores where the prisoner's armour was to be melted down and remade for Roman use.

The guards at the door were loath to let him in. But they couldn't argue with the letter of approval he'd brought with him. Once inside he went from pile to pile, fingering the workmanship, the runes carved in the pommels, the designs on the shields and the hilts of the daggers.

He did not come out until long after the sun had set.

Noticing the hour, he detoured to the kitchen tents and gathered the dinner tray, before heading for Marcus' tent.

The sun had fully set by this time. The lamps were lit along the paths. As he raised his hand to draw up the tent flap, he heard the noise of talking coming from within. He slowed his steps. He raised his hand to open the flap when he heard the words. "You love him." He stilled, then, bending down, looked through a tear in the tent that had been re-stitched not entirely neatly.

Liathan was standing behind Marcus, he had unbuckled his breastplate and had paused in taking it off his back. Hands hovering above Marcus' shoulders.

Marcus didn't turn around. "Don't stop," he said and after a second Liathan continued, pulling the armour over Marcus' head and walking to the frame, placing the armour on top of it.

"I understand," Marcus said, "He is, very easy to love." Liathan tensed, the muscles of his back bunching against his clothes.

"Continue," Marcus ordered after a second, and Liathan returned to him. Instead of continuing, however, he halted. Staring at the back of Marcus' head.

"I will not-" he shook his head. Esca saw the aborted motion as Marcus stopped himself from turning. Liathan kept speaking, "I owe you my life, and my honour. I have a place here." He walked around until he was facing Marcus. "Here," he said again, legs planted firmly on the ground. "You gave me that."

Marcus' face was impassive, had been impassive the entire time, barring that one aborted turn, and Esca could see Liathan scanning it, trying to work out what Marcus was feeling. Finally Marcus nodded and held out his arm. A second later Liathan bent to unbuckle the brace.

Esca crept backwards, ten, twenty paces then walked forwards again, a little louder, this time whistling snatches of a tune. He shook the flap and opened it, giving enough warning. Liathan was now standing by the armour frame and Marcus just lowering himself onto the bed. He sent Esca a tight smile and began to take off his sandals.

"I brought dinner."

Esca began to set out the dinner things and after that they ate. Despite Esca's best efforts, during dinner, the tension from before was not entirely dispelled, and he wondered if he should keep silent over his findings. But ultimately the news he had was more important than their personal dramas and he pushed back his plate and spoke.

"I've been treating the prisoners with Liathan."

"I know." Marcus looked up. "They're being well cared for?"

"Yes," Esca hastened to reassure him. He paused, taking a sip of water, then began again. "The majority of the prisoners are not Selgovae."

Marcus nodded. "They told us little, but that we were able to discover."

"They fight because they have to," Esca said. "Not because they want to." He rolled the cup between his palms. "I don't think we're facing an cohesive army." Marcus looked up. Liathan was following as best he could, gaze flicking between them.

"If those fighting out of fear of repercussions could be persuaded to take a different path, then the army you face would be halved, perhaps more than halved. The Selgovae were smaller than the Brigantes, and I cannot imagine their numbers have grown that much in the past seven years."

"But how?" Marcus leant back in his chair. "How could they be persuaded to abandon the Selgovae?"

Esca replaced his cup and leant back also. Crossing his arms in front of his chest. "If there was a way to talk with the leaders, meet with them and persuade them that war with the Romans is not in their best interests." He let his voice take on a lilting tone, thinking of Una. "That there are cohorts and cohorts of men that can be sent to the wall to continue the war well into the future. That this war could last until their children, their children's children were dead. Until the bodies were laid as high as the wall and the land around it soaked in blood."

Marcus shook his head, lip twisting bitterly. "Impossible, they would never trust a Roman they wouldn't even speak with him. Any Roman would be dead before he was anywhere near the camp - " And then Marcus stopped and stared at Esca, face slackening in realisation.

"Exactly, " Esca replied. "A Roman couldn't do it. But one of them could get close enough, one of them would be trusted enough to speak, and respected enough to be listened to. One of them could change the tide of the war." He leant forwards towards Marcus. "I could change the tide of this war."

Liathan was now looking between them, a frown between his eyes, reading body language if not catching the words.

"What are you saying, Esca?" Marcus asked, his tone holding more a warning than confusion.

"Don't you see? This is the only way."

"It's not the only way, we can fight this war."

"You can, but it will kill you."

Marcus stared at him, unspeaking

"Marcus, it will kill you."

"You have so little faith in my skill as-"

"That's not what I mean and you know it. This war will destroy you. I can't let that happen."

Marcus pressed his lips together and Esca knew he was remembering their conversation in baths.

"You will still have to go to battle, but perhaps I can save you from going to war. Please let me do this."

Marcus was shaking his head.

"I can't wait for you," Esca burst out. "I can't stay behind and wait for you. Not again. I will ride with you-"

"No, you can't," Marcus interrupted.

"Yes I can. I am not some child to be left behind." Esca gestured widely. "I am not sick, old or wounded. I am healthy, I am whole and I, love you." His breath hitched.

Liathan was looking between them, eyes very wide.

Marcus stood abruptly, Esca stood too, hands reaching out for Marcus.

"I can talk with these people. They were my people. They were under the protection of the Brigantes. I can talk with them, I know them. They don't want a long drawn out war, they just want to be left alone. The cohort is here to stop the Selgovae, to stop the raids. If I can just explain to them, if I can make them see that their families will be safe. That the Romans aren't here to break them... like they did the Brigantes." He let his hand fall, and swallowed against the lump in his throat. Marcus' face was pale and Esca couldn't hold his gaze.

"It's not like last time, I know that. I can do this, Marcus," he insisted, reaching again for Marcus' arm.

Marcus shook him off.

"Marcus."

He raised his hands palms up. "No." And before Esca could stop him, he'd stepped back out of reach. In two short strides he was at the tent flap, then he was gone.

Esca stepped forward to follow him and Liathan reached out, grabbing his arm. "Wait," he said. "What's happening? Tell me, please."

Esca glances at the tent flap, then back at Liathan, guilt turning in his stomach. "I want to leave," he said.

Liathan's eyebrows climbed into his hairline.

"Leave? What do you mean leave? You can't leave."

"I could stop this war," he said, and he turned away from the tent to explain what Liathan had missed.

Liathan said nothing once Esca was finished, but began clearing the dishes silently. "Don't you think it will work?"

Liathan paused, then looked up, his gaze pinning Esca where he stood.

"I can't lose both of you."

And with that, he left the tent, Esca sat heavily, resting his elbows on the table.

Better he go than Marcus. Better he fail than Marcus. For everyone, it was better. His death would not start a war. His death would not matter. And they would have each other.

He waited all night for Marcus to return, eventually falling asleep in his chair.

The next morning Esca was woken by the slave who brought breakfast. There was no sign of Marcus, or Liathan, but the slave brought with him a message that he was to report directly to the Centurions' tent.

The guards straightened as he arrived as let him in without protest. They moved with unsettling politeness. Inside the Centurions and Marcus were ranged around the central table. Libo looked up as Esca approached, as did Marcus.

"Esca, tell them you will not betray me."

Esca blinked.

"Marcus this is madness," Libo interrupted. "There is a difference between sharing your bed with a man, and sharing the safety of your men with him."

Heat prickled at Esca's cheeks and Marcus went white, two red spots of colour appearing high in his cheeks. "You forget your place, Centurion."

Libo did not bend his head. "No, you forget his."

One of the other centurions spoke up, a little more diffidently. "Gaius is right, sir. We cannot trust this man." He gestured sharply towards Esca.

Marcus glowered. "There is no one I would trust more." Marcus growled.

Esca wished Marcus had given him some warning, told him he planned to tell the centurions of Esca's plan, but he steeled his spine and stepped forward. "I don't know your plans. I haven't involved myself in your campaign. The only information I can give them is of a personal nature. And that I would never do."

The centurions fell silent. Then the other centurion, who had been silent the whole time, now stepped forward. "It's true. He has remained with the slaves or the doctors, since arriving. He has never before set foot in this tent."

Libo shook his head. "I received a report he was poking about the armoury yesterday."

They all four turned and looked at him.

Esca swallowed, nervous suddenly under the combined weight of their regard. He nodded. "I had to check Una's story, that the prisoners were not Selgovae. It's true, I saw the carvings on their weaponry. The designs are diverse, they're from the outlying tribes, some still even bear the mark of the Brigantes." He ignored the flash of pain in his chest and turned to Marcus. "I wanted to make sure before I came to you."

Marcus nodded, eyes intent. Then he turned and looked back at the others. After long, silent moments, Libo begrudgingly nodded his head.

Marcus looked at the centurion who had objected, the man's lip twisted, but he threw up his hands. "You are my commander."

Marcus nodded. "Yes. I am."

He gestured for Esca to come forwards and drew his attention to the map, pointing out the camps – "From what we can tell, these tribes are the ones helping the Selgovae. We don't know whether or not it's voluntary."

Esca looked at the names, scanning the map, then pointed at ta town towards the Eastern edge of the marked area. "This town is not under Selgovae control,. It's a trading post, part of the Ontadii. It would be a good place to call the meeting. My- my father knew the chief there."

The back of Marcus' hand brushed his knuckles, shielded from sight underneath the table.

"A meeting there, then." Marcus pointed to the town with his other hand, then let his finger drift to the plains surrounding it. "Flatlands here." He glanced up at Libo, and still a little begrudgingly, Libo stepped forward and they began planning in earnest.

Esca remained with them for almost half the day, talking and planning out the details. The plan began to take shape. Desperate and risky, and he couldn't stop a flash of fear curving up his spine. But Marcus never asked if he wanted to reconsider, and Esca never offered.

Late, when most was organised, Esca left to return to his tent. Liathan was waiting within, sitting nervously on the edge of a chair, he stood as Esca entered.

"I heard the centurions had been shut up in their tent all day, and that you were with them," he said in a rush.

Esca held up a hand. "Yes. And yes. Marcus agreed to the plan."

Liathan's face paled, and he pressed his lips together between his teeth.  
"Liathan." Esca stepped forwards, reaching out and taking Liathan's hands.

Liathan shook his head jerkily. "No, it is a good plan, you're right."

He let his eyes fall shut a second, then opened them again, swallowed thickly. "I should go."

"No, no, stay."

"I-"

Behind them the tent flap was flung open. Esca turned sharply, to see Marcus entering the tent.

They were all three frozen for a second, Esca and Liathan in the centre and Marcus by the entrance, then Marcus took another step forward, gaze going from their faces, to their joined hands, and back.

"You should go."

Esca felt a tremor go through Liathan's hands.

"With Esca."

He stared at Marcus in confusion.

"Liathan should go with you." Marcus transferred his gaze to Esca. "Over the wall."

**

"Liathan should go with you, over the wall." There was silence for a moment, then Marcus continued. "You have better chances if you go together. You can look out for each other and-" He broke off, raising his hand to run his fingers through his hair. "It's too dangerous to go alone, Esca." He caught his gaze. "It's too dangerous."

"I'll do it," Liathan said, before Esca could reply. Esca turned back, but he was looking across him, at Marcus. "I will go with him," he said, slowly as he placed the words. "Together. We will return." Liathan, glanced at him, then back at Marcus. He pulled away from Esca's grip with one hand and had raised it to clasp with Marcus.

"I swear to you, we will return together."

The next morning Marcus ordered the Selgovae prisoners separated from the others. There were mutters of confusion and interest, the prisoners well aware that this wasn't usual procedure, but the legionnaires who directed them into one tent, or the next, gave nothing away, stony faced and stern.

When the sorting was finished, Esca stepped into the larger tent, Liathan beside him, Marcus a step behind.

The interior was packed full, those that could stand were crowded in between the beds. There were over fifty warriors, representatives of the thirty tribes that, between them, Esca and Marcus had decided were the best ones to approach. Una stood near the front, Esca had spoken to her earlier and she had agreed to lend her support when Esca needed it.

There was a hubbub of talking. Esca raised his hands for silence. "Most of you know who I am. But for those that don't. My name is Esca Mac Cunoval, of the Brigantes. I was captured by Romans after the battle that claimed my family and the Romans who used ride under the eagle." All about him the low murmurs ceased, and Esca was talking into the silence. "I was sold and bought and sold, over and over, until I reached the gladiatorial ring, facing a man much stronger than I, bigger than I, and armed with better weapons than I." He paused. The listeners, caught in the cadence of his story, were watching him, intently. "I was going to die."

He turned suddenly, and pointed at Marcus. "This man petitioned for my life. He saved my life, and I became his slave. For saving my life I swore that, despite the hatred I held for his people, I would serve him. And despite the fact it was his father's cohort, this cohort" --he gestured to the tent walls-- "that had killed my family."

He turned back to face his audience. "Us two, who should have been fated to be enemies, whose fathers had faced each other in battle, instead became friends. I travelled with him, across the wall, to reclaim his eagle, and I travelled back with him to Rome. He has saved my life many times, and I have saved his. He freed me from my bonds to him and I trust him entirely."

He paused, took a second to swallow, mouth a little dry. "He was not sent here to wage war. He was not sent here to claim your lands for Rome. He was sent here to stop the Selgovae. He was sent here to stop _them_ from starting a war." Now he let an entreating note into his voice, raising his hands towards them. "Your homes are along the wall, your families live in these lands. The Selgovae are protected behind you. The Selgovae are not losing, will not be hurt by this war, _you_ will be. Help me stop this before it's too late."

He let his hands fall, and for a few second, all he could hear was the breathing of the people gathered in the tent.

"How?" One of them asked, breaking the silence. "We're prisoners."

Esca nodded, tongue darting out to wet his lips. "What if you were not prisoners? What if you were free to return to your people? Would you tell them to keep fighting? Or would you tell them to stop?"

"We have no choice, the Selgovae-"

"What if the Selgovae were not a threat?" Esca interrupted.

The man who had spoken fell silent. A few moments later, the woman standing beside him spoke up. "What are you saying?" she asked, a frown between her brows.

"I'm saying that you leave here now. That you go, free men and women. Those of you that can walk, leave. Those of you that cannot give some message, to your companions, that they can carry it back to your people, and tells your leaders that the Romans do not want a war, that the Romans only want to stop the Selgovae. And that we are willing to talk. Hear us out. Come to Tulach Cultraidh in three days time. It's outside Selgovae control, there will be a meeting of the tribes, hear what we have to say."

Liathan stepped forward "This war will not help any of us, please tell your chieftains to listen to what we have to say.

One prisoner stepped forward. "What does your opinion matter? You're a slave."

Esca heard Marcus shift his feet behind him, clearly recognising the word. Esca noticed Liathan flex his fingers by his side, but his face remained calm. "I am a slave, it's true, but I have been treated better here than I could have ever have hoped to be treated by my neighbouring clans, far better than I ever expected to be treated by Romans." He nodded sharply. "Yes I am a slave but I have been treated well. And I would not-" He swallowed. "If I were given a chance to run I would not take it."

The questioning continued for what seemed like hours, Esca's voice was hoarse when he was done, and Liathan too sounded tired, but ultimately, the prisoners weren't going to say no to a chance to escape. Whether they would simply run back to the Selgovae remained to be seen.

Early the next morning Esca, Marcus and Liathan stood by the gates and watched the prisoners leave. They filed out between the wooden doors under the scrutiny of the legionnaires.

Una paused as she passed them, and she gripped Esca's arm in farewell. "I will speak with my father. He will understand, he will join us, I'm sure of it. This war can be stopped. I will see you in three days. Be safe and do not lose hope."

The gates were drawn shut behind them the legionnaires on the walls watching uneasily as they rode away. Libo and a small party of soldiers escorted the prisoners beyond the wall. Then Libo returned with his men, riding through the gates and ordering them drawn shut behind him. He dismounted and gave Marcus as terse nod. "They've gone beyond the wall. The rest is no longer in our hands." He gave Esca a sharp look, before saluting and moving on. Marcus turned to face Esca and Liathan. "I have to see to the preparations for your departure."

Esca nods. "We should pack our things as well." Marcus' gaze lingered for a second between them, before he turned on his heel and headed back into the camp.

Esca was very aware of Liathan's presence by his side as they headed back to the tent, and in an awkward silence, packed their things. Esca had few possessions and Liathan even less, but when they were both done, the tent looked somehow bare without them.

The rest of the preparations took most of the day and Marcus returned late, the sun already well down. Liathan left to pick up the dinner tray. Marcus stood watching him walks away, before entering the tent fully. He looked around, noticing the absence of certain items. There was a flicker of pain in his expression quickly masked. Esca made an aborted move towards him, hand reaching, but falling short.

Marcus removed his helmet, placing it on the frame, and Esca stood to help him, unbuckling his armour. His fingers were clumsy, from the proximity and the ever present thought that this might be the last time he does this for Marcus. Marcus seemed to share his sombre mood, for they didn't speak. Standing close enough to feel each other's heat, Esca's fingers brushing Marcus' clothed shoulder. A slow tightening deep in Esca's belly as he unbuckled each strap and lace, savouring the closeness, each moment dragging against his skin.

Esca lifted the breastplate over Marcus' head and lowered his arms. They stood for a moment, staring at each other. Marcus breathing a little heavily.

Liathan entered the tent and halted at the sight of them. Esca recognised the unsettling symmetry of the moment and he could feel a hysterical laugh building behind his ribs. But Marcus turned away, breaking the moment and Esca, freed, walked over to the frame to stow the armour. Liathan moved forward and placed the tray on the table.

They ate silently, each tied up in his own thoughts, all revolving around the days to come.

Liathan cleared the dishes and lingered. Esca was searching for some way to request he stays a little longer, not wanting the evening to end. Then Marcus turned to Liathan abruptly. "You've served us well as a slave." Esca could hear the ring of finality to his tone, and he hated that. But he knew the night had to, at some point, come to an end and the dawn had to arrive. Marcus continued. "You carried yourself with honour, you protected us, you helped us in our quest to return the eagle, despite everything. I trust you." Liathan, cheeks turning a little red, ducked his head.

Marcus drew in a breath. "As a reward for your actions, for your integrity, I am granting you your freedom. Liathan, you're freed."

Liathan looked utterly shocked he turned to Esca, to confirm what he heard, thinking his rudimentary Latin had failed him, but from Esca's expression he could read the truth. "Freedom? I'm free? Not a slave?"

Marcus stood and turned away towards the chest containing his belongings. Bending down, he took out a knife which Esca after a moment, recognised as Liathan's, taken from him all those months ago after the battle at the river. Marcus turns around and the blade, which was shielded from Liathan's view by his body, was revealed. Liathan, of course, recognised the knife, his eyes going even wider.

Marcus held it out and Liathan, at first moving hesitantly, then more swiftly, reached out and took it from Marcus' hand. He weighed it for a second before his fingers curled slowly around the hilt, as if of their own accord. His eyes fell shut, a reverent expression on his face.

Esca's heart was very full in his chest. He glanced at Marcus to find he was already looking back at him, Esca hoped Marcus could see the gratitude in his smile. Liathan opened his eyes blinking away the sheen. "Thank you." He coughed to clear his throat. "Thank you," he said again. "I- I." He swallowed roughly, pressing his lips shut and, Esca thought, changing what he'd tried to say. "I will not fail you," he said instead. "I swear it." He looked over at Esca. "I swear." He raised the knife, hilt to his brow, in a salute and left the tent.

Esca turned to Marcus once he heard the sound of Liathan's footsteps fade away. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Marcus shook his head, gaze lingering on the tent flap a second longer. "I wasn't sure myself. But," He turned to Esca. "I realised I don't see him as a slave any more. When I told him to go with you. Giving the order, it felt wrong. He's not one of my legionnaires. We're equals in this. He's put himself in danger just as often as we have. To gamble with his life in pursuit of a cause that is not his own..." He shook his head again. "He has to make those choices, he has to own them. He has to own himself." He paused, then asked. "You don't think he deserved it?"

Esca shook his head. "He deserves it, of course. He's done everything you said, he's saved our lives. He-" He glanced at the flap. "He deserves his freedom."

Marcus nodded. "Then it is settled. You will both go across the wall as free men." He turned away suddenly.

Esca, thinking the tension in his back is Marcus imaging them disappearing over the wall, as Libo feared. Esca stepped forward, hastening to reassure him. "Marcus, we won't leave you."

Marcus laughed, but the sound wasn't happy. "I-I know. I know that Esca, I trust you, and Liathan. It's not you I'm afraid of." He gestured sharply towards the tent wall, voice rising. "It's the rest. They may _claim_ they want peace, but." He shook his head, shoulders slumping. "Men are greedy. They want many things, and I hate that I'm not going to be with you."

"We will have each other."

Marcus nodded slowly. "Yes, there is that, but I-"

Esca walked forward and placed his hand over Marcus' mouth, feeling the silky softness of his lips under his fingers. "Enough talking." He leaned forward, replacing his hand with his lips. Marcus' mouth opened easily beneath his and they fell back onto the bed. They shed their clothes slowly, lingering on each slide of cloth, each revelation of skin. Their fingers intertwining, Esca pressing against Marcus as if he could climb right down inside him. Desperately trying to memorise every inch of skin, every scar, every wrinkle, every curl. Marcus doing the same, both reaching, almost clumsy, for the other and holding on tight.

They woke before the dawn, the slave sent to wake them hurriedly setting out breakfast. Liathan joined them, wearing a simple brown tunic like Esca. He looked strange without his slave whites. Somehow more like the prince that he had been when they first met him despite the simple clothes.

He was a little awkward at first, standing hesitantly to the side as the slave laid out their meal. The slave left and Esca reached forward and tugged Liathan down beside them. Liathan's fingers flexed in his grip and Esca let go, fingers feeling warm from where they had touched Liathan's skin.

They ate quickly and, taking their packs, walked swiftly towards the camp entrance. The only people awake were the guards and Libo, who was there to see them off.

He saluted as they approached.

Marcus gave Esca, a swift, tight embrace. "Note, it's us leaving and you staying," Esca said as they parted. Marcus shook his head sharply. "I don't envy you this feeling. I think I understand now what you hated."

Esca doesn't want to give him empty promises. He doesn't know if he'll return. The thought that this might be his last time seeing Marcus made him want to grip him with both hands never let go. Drag him back into the tent and mark his skin, brand him with his ownership, as he had owned Esca, owned Liathan.

Marcus turned to Liathan and embraced him also. The sight of them embracing did something funny to Esca's breathing, a band tightening around his chest. They part and Marcus clasped a hand on Liathan's slender shoulder. "Be safe." Liathan's eyes was fixed on Marcus'. He nodded, fingers tighten on Marcus' shoulders for a moment. Libo came forward and Liathan stepped back jerkily. "Sir, it's time," Libo said, looking only at Marcus

Esca and Liathan mounted their horses, and the gates were opened. They rode through, Esca raising his hand above his head in farewell, just as he remembered Marcus doing those many months before when they left Calleva for the north.

They rode through the wall, through the gate and out into the open land surrounding it. Then, both at the same time, pressing in their heels and urging their horses into a canter, then a gallop. Esca didn't look back, neither did Liathan.

**

The land they rode through was familiar to Esca from riding it with Marcus. He remembered these woods, these fields. He remembered the heavy tension that had lingered in his chest at the thought of finding the killing grounds. The lure of home, freedom, lying just beyond the next curve. His fear and uncertainty, riding with the Roman stranger, then man he'd sworn to serve, but wanted, more than anything to abandon.

How different then now. All he wanted was to turn and ride back to Marcus, he wished they could all three ride south and leave this entire mess to deal with itself.

But it wouldn't deal with itself. And he couldn't leave these people.

As the sun began to set, he drew his horse to a stop by the tree line. Liathan came up beside, the horses whinnying softly to each other, as their riders sat still and silent in their sate.

"The day is over." Liathan said after a while. "We should make camp."

Esca nodded, but made no move to turn his horse away. The rolling slope of the land before them was lit by the fading sun.

It was beautiful.

Liathan dismounted and began to set up camp. Esca finally followed suit. He saw to the horses and joined Liathan just as the fire was beginning to eat steadily through the wood.

They spoke little that night, both weighed down by the heavy mood. Marcus' missing presence by the fire was tangible.

They woke early the next morning, readied themselves before the sun rose, the early morning chill eating into Esca's bones despite the glowing coals of the fire. They set off silently, riding through the turn from night to grey dawn. The sun slowly burning up the low mist that rolled down across the plains.

The day's ride was uneventful, the land around beautiful but unchanging, it was almost as if they made no progress, riding around the same fields over and over, though Esca knew that wasn't the case, the sun's path trading as the early stars came out to show them the way.

They halted by a stream to make camp, Liathan waking down to the water as Esca tended the pot, stirring it absently with a spoon. His gaze was drawn by the sound of splashing. Liathan had taken off his shirt, the fading sunlight catching the planes of his shoulder blades, skimmed the curve of his neck. He bent and swept water up over his head, inhaling sharply at the cold, and as he stood, droplets cascaded over his skull and trickled down the line of his back.

There was a sudden burning pain and Esca snapped his hand away from where he'd let it fall to close to the flames.

That night Liathan fell asleep quickly, well tired by the hours of riding. Esca lay awake much longer, listening to his steady breathing, caught in the snares of his thoughts.

The next day their path eventually became a road, trodden down by many feet. Grass gave way to packed earth, and finally, a few hours past the zenith, the spiked walls of the town came into view.

Esca spurred his horse forward and hailed the guards at the gate.

“Name and purpose,” the lead one said as he walked forward, head tilted a little to look up at Esca.

“Esca mac Cunoval. Here to speak with Camran of the Ontadii.”

The man's eyes widened at Esca's name, but he made no comment, instead turning to pass the message along. Esca and Liathan waited, garnering a few strange looks from tradespeople and other travellers the guards let through.

Eventually the messenger came back, an escort with him. Esca and Liathan were passed over to them and led through the town. It was large, prosperous. The centre a neat crossroads with a large market square spanning the streets. The stalls were spread out loosely, fewer than Esca remembered, but there were more people crowding the place than he'd expected, filling the gaps between the stalls, or lingering at the edges of the road.

Esca and Liathan were led to a large house towards the north, stone foundations and thick wooden walls. The chief's house. And he came out himself as they approached. He was a large man, muscle turned mostly to fat, well into his middle age, grey hair in a ring around his head, his forehead shiny and bald. But his eyes were sharp above his crooked nose.

“Esca.” He called as they approached, a smile lighting up his eyes and rounding his cheeks.

Esca dismounted easily, thumping his feet against the ground. He took a second to steady himself after all that riding, then strode forwards to meet him. “Camran.” he grinned. “I wasn't sure you'd remember me.”

I almost didn't recognise you,” he replied. They embraced, then Camran stepped back, holding Esca at arm's length. “You've grown.”

“That happens.” Esca shrugged, ducking his head. Then he turned to indicate Liathan who had dismounted as well. ““This is my, companion, Liathan.” He left off his clan and Camran made no comment, reaching to clasp Liathan's hand.

“You are welcome Liathan friend of Esca, welcome.” He gestured to his men. “See to the horses.” Then he ushered them both inside. “You must be weary, how long have you travelled? Long I think, for you are covered in dust.” And he laughed, the sound echoing up into the rafters as they entered his house.

Esca let Camran take over, seeing to their feeding and washing, he even insisted on putting them up in his house and their belongings, sparse though they were, were stowed in their room.

It wasn't more than an hour later that they were sat at the table to eat. Finally, after they'd taken the edge off his hunger, Camran turned to Esca. “So my friend, while it is good to see you, and you know, my gates are always open to a son of the Brigantes. But I must ask, I don't think it was only the missing of my hospitality that brought you this way.”

Esca leaned back, pushing his plate away. “You're right. Though your hospitality is as fine as I remembered.” Camran nodded at the flattery, a smile on his lips.

“You know what is happening at the wall.” Esca said, turning serious. He heard Liathan push his plate away next to him.

Carmen's smile faded away. “Of course, what happens there affects all of us. Trade has dropped sharply, but the numbers of those fleeing...”

Esca nodded, he'd seen the people gathered in the square. “We've come from the Roman camp.” He stopped to let that sink in.

Camran's lips thinned. “I didn't believe it at first, they told me you'd, joined, them,” he said it tonelessly, but still Esca's chest tightened. He shook his head.

“The story is too long for one night. But, in the simplest terms. I was taken captive, as you likely know, on the night of the attack on my people. I was sold many times, and eventually I was taken into the possession of Marcus Aquila, then man who commands the Roman army at the wall. He freed me.” He caught Camran's gaze and held it. “I serve him willingly.”

he took a deep breath. “Three days ago I convinced him to let me negotiate a truce with the clans on this side of the wall. I want to end this before it becomes a full scale war. I don't want to see this town,” – he gestured – “and others like it collapse under the blight of battle.”

Camran's nodded slowly. “Well said. Of course I don't want to see that either.” But he shook his head. “I cannot aid you in this. The Ontadii are neutral, that has served us well in the past, I would not break it for one man, even if that man were my friend.” He reached across to hold Esca's wrist. “Your father was a great man. I owe him more than I can say. If you require safe passage out, I will give it to you, but I cannot take up arms on your word.”

Esca shook his head. “No, you misunderstand. I'm not asking you to fight. I want to hold a negotiation, a talk, that's all.” He clasped Camran's hand in return. “I want to hold it here, I do not want you to break your neutrality, it's the reason I came.”

Camran's eyes widened, and he leaning back and releasing Esca's hand. “Ah, well.” He said nothing for a while, simply folded his hands on his ample belly. “The Selgovae will accept no negotiation.”

Esca nodded “I know, that's why I didn't invite them.”

Camran grinned at that, sharp, and under his crooked nose, it looked suddenly vicious, Esca was reminded of the younger man in his memories, remembered the story of how he'd gained that kink in his nose.

“Well, anything that's a wasp in the Selgovae's eye was all right in my books. He nodded. “Yes, you can hold your talks here.”

Esca grinned taking a deep, relieved breath. Under the table Liathan released his grip on Esca's hand, and Esca, who hadn't noticed him taking it, flexed his hand in the absence of his warmth.

They retire early to their rooms, weary after so much travel, and the next day started preparations for the talks. Mostly they just tried to stay out from underfoot as Camran's people made ready.

Camran insisted on providing them with finer clothes.

“It's not so much what you say with some,” he'd told Esca. “It's how you look when you say it.” And with Liathan's prompting, Esca grudgingly agreed.

“Sometimes I forget,” Esca said as they waited, his back to the room, arms resting on the windowsill. “Whose son you are.” He didn't turn away from the window as he said it, looking out over the courtyard below. But he heard Liathan stop moving behind him. “You must know all the tricks,” Esca continued. This time he turned, the interior was dark after staring outside, for a second Liathan was just an indistinct shadow that finally coalesced into his familiar shape, shoulders a little bowed, as he sat on the edge of Esca's bed.

“Not all,” Liathan replied, softly enough that Esca almost didn't catch the words, nor the undercurrent of bitterness beneath them. He walked forwards, reaching for Liathan's shoulder but before he could touch, Liathan shook his head, one sharp, abrupt motion, and stood.

His gaze flickered to Esca's hand then back up to his face. “I made a choice, Esca. I stand by it.”

Esca let his hand drop. The door behind the shook with knocking as the women arrived with the clothes, and Liathan brushed past Esca to open it and let them in.

The fitting went well enough, the clothes were well made, clean, but simple. Still, much better than anything Esca had worn since Rome. He pulled his tunic up over his head, and despite himself, felt a blush threaten at the frank appraisal the women gave him.

“Those too,” one of the women said, her thick dark hair in a braid down her back. “Wouldn't do for you to only be half-dressed.” she continued, pointing at his legs. His hands went to his laces and he untied his breeches before bending to slip them off, rising and catching Liathan's gaze. Liathan, staring. Esca's breath caught in his throat. And then someone was reaching and taking his trousers, and cloth was thrown over his head and down his sleeves. He pulled the tunic on, but by the time he was free, Liathan had his turned away and was pulling his own tunic over the breadth of his back.

Esca's needed taking in slightly, but he was used to that event and he just smiled as his woman apologised for all the pins she was going to have to stick in his sleeves. He held still and let his eyes wander. Liathan had the opposite problem, the sleeves laughably short on this long arms.

The women clustered around him, touching and adjusting and Esca had to consciously relax his jaw. The woman measuring him giving him a sharp look as she adjusted his collar. “There, last one.” she smiled, then turned, calling the seamstress over for her opinion.

They both studied Esca intently, asking him to turn this way and that. He felt his cheeks heat and was reminded strongly of his childhood, the happy memory bright and fragile in its rarity. He blinked rapidly.

“Yes, it's fine, get it off him and adjusted.” The seamstress ordered another girl over to help Esca and for the next few minutes he was entirely consumed in getting the clothes off without sticking himself any more than he already had.

Finally freed he nodded to the women, thanking them as they took the clothes away and turned to put his own clothes back on. The room emptied, only the seamstress and one other assistant were left working on Liathan. They'd finished with the tunic, and Liathan held it bunched up in his hands so they could fix his waist. The curls of his tattoos curved over his skin and disappearing beneath the fabric.

“You'll have to excuse them.”

Esca turned, the woman who'd taken his measurements had returned. She gestured towards the door. “The other girls. They didn't know, they wouldn't have been so...” She raised her hands as if she had claws. “Though, he is very...” he voice trailed off as she turned to look at Liathan, before glancing guilty back at Esca.

“We're-” Esca hesitated. “We're not-”

“All right, take that off, we'll try this one.” The seamstress ordered from across the room, and Liathan raised his arms, muscles stretching, the lines of his tattoos rippling as his arms moved. Esca's mouth went dry.

The woman laughed softly and she patted him reassuringly on the arm, leaving before Esca could untangle the words in his mouth.

Esca finished clothing himself, and then, feeling awkward standing around watching Liathan be measured. He murmured something that might have been a farewell and went to find Camran and help with the preparations.

He was so busy he had no time to search Liathan out, instead he hurried straight from overseeing helping to organise the great hall, to rushing to his room. The woman with the braid was there again, hands on her hips as she waited impatiently for him to dress. “They all left hours ago.” he reprimanded, pulling his tunic straight. He apologised breathlessly, and rushed out as soon as she nodded her satisfaction with his appearance.

He pulled himself to a halt after rushing down the stairs, smoothed his tunic out and walked at a more respectable pace towards the doors. A tall man was stood just outside, his head in shadow, his back to Esca, the long folds of his tunic just brushing his knee, his waist cinched tightly with a dark leather band, the elegant shape of his legs hugged by dark grey wool and tucked into sturdy brown boots.

“Are they not yet ready?” Esca asked, approaching, frowning as he tried to glance into the hall. The man turned moving away from the shadow, his features catching the light. Esca's breath caught in his throat.

Liathan was wearing the woad again. The pale blue smeared over his face and neck. His eyes startlingly white. The tunic skimmed the lines of his body, drew attention to his height, the breadth of his shoulders and the narrowness of his waist. Esca swallowed roughly. And in his memories he smelt wood smoke and the tasted the heavy flavour of the mead the Seal People had drank.

Liathan half raised his hand to his neck in a nervous, aborted gesture. “Is it- do I-” He took a quick breath. “It fits?”

Esca nodded slowly, letting his eyes trail down from Liathan's face, to the toes of his boots and back up. It was difficult to tell, with the woad, but he thought Liathan's cheeks were a little darker.

“It fits.” He said, voice rough. He would have said more, but Camran hailed them from within, and not wanting to irritate their host, Esca swallowed the rest of what he was going to say. “We should.” Esca gestured towards the table. Liathan nodded and followed Esca through the hall.

Camran had told Esca earlier he wanted no politics before the talks. “Politics creeps into every corner if you let it. All we talk about was agreements and broken words and it's enough to destroy my appetite.” Of course, he'd said while digging happily into his midday meal.

Nevertheless, Esca let Camran's rambling talk roll over him as they began to eat, keeping his eyes on the food, and trying to stop himself stealing looks at Liathan sitting across from him. The woad around his lips was soon eaten away, the reddish blush turning wet as he lowered brought his cup to his lips.

Esca shifted his shoulders under his tunic, the air suddenly warm.

“Tell me,” he said abruptly, halting Camran's speech in full flow. Camran simply raised a cheery eyebrow and motioned for him to continue. “Tell me what happened to the Brigantes.”

Camran's face turned sombre, and he reached for a cloth, wiping his mouth and leaning back in his chair, hands resting on his belly.

“Scattered,” he said finally. “Some mixed and married into the surrounding tribes. Most slain, others taken into slavery.” He gestured towards Esca, who nodded.

“I knew- there were some I, recognised. But I didn't know...” He looked down at his plate. There was the slightest brush of fabric against his leg, then again, a little stronger, a longer leg resting against his own.

He didn't look up, just pushed back against Liathan slightly.

Camran began speaking again, words flowing into the awkward silence.

Esca missed Marcus suddenly, a heavy physical ache low in his chest. Thoughts of him filling him up when he'd tried so hard to cut them out, to resign himself to the thought of never seeing him again. His nerves about the days to come started to wrap around his middle, tightening in a band around his heart. His appetite was suddenly gone. The food he'd eaten turning to rocks in his stomach. He rose to excuse himself, making his apologies to Camran.

Liathan rose with him.

“There's no need for you to cut your evening short.” Esca shook his head. “I'm simply weary.”

Liathan looked at him, eyes sharp. “Do you want me to stay?”

Esca tried to say yes, but the words would not come. He closed his mouth.

“Well then.” Liathan turned to Camran “Thank you Camran for your hospitality this day. I hope your sleep is pleasant and we will see you in the morning.”

Liathan reached for Esca's shoulder as he came level with him, resting his hand there for a moment, before letting it fall.

They walked to the room in silence, each wrapped in their own thoughts. Liathan went to wash as Esca changed into his clothes for sleep, and they traded places when he returned.

The light outside had long since faded, and Liathan blew out the lamp before climbing into his bed. Esca turned to face the window and Liathan's pallet beneath it, the moonlight catching the curve of his shoulder and head.

His eyes grew heavy.

Liathan spoke suddenly, breaking the silence. "Do you think it will work?"

Esca was silent for a while. "I have to believe it will," he replied softly. "It must." He closed his eyes.

Liathan said nothing else, and at some point between waiting for his reply and trying to think what to say next, Esca fell asleep.

The next morning dawned grey and misty. They ate little for breakfast, even Camran's usual joviality seemed a little subdued. Within the hour, emissaries from the tribes begin to trickle into town.

They'd decided to hold off any serious talk until all were gathered, instead Esca and Liathan greet them along with Camran. As they settled in, they both made sure they were available for questions. The tension was high, the false cheer a thin veneer, everyone knows why they were here, and they were sounding out Esca and Liathan just as much as the other way around.

Una arrived towards the evening with her people she was one of the last few. By nightfall Camran's house was bursting with guests, more spilling out into guest houses in the town. The fate that night was larger even than the gathering with Liathan's people, all those months ago.

One of the visiting chiefs raised his cup in a toast. “To the memory of the Brigantes.” Esca, sensing something else was coming, nevertheless smiled grimly and raised his cup.

“If not for the Romans breaking your people, the Selgovae would never have taken hold,” the man continued.

Esca let his smile turn bitter. “Well said.” He nodded and some went to drink. But he stood abruptly, keeping his cup aloft. “But if not them, perhaps the Novidae.” he said into the silence. “If not them...” he turned to Camran ”...perhaps even the Ontadii.” He turned back to the people gathered in the hall. “We are not here to mourn the past.” He caught Liathan's gaze sitting a few seats down from him. “We're here for our futures.” And with that he ended the toast, drinking deeply before sitting.

The talking continued throughout the evening. Opinions wavered depending on who he was talking to. In the moments he had to take a break and a great gulp of mead to wet his dry throat, he saw Liathan talking just as fast, gesticulating, with fingers spread wide, woad crinkling as his face creased into a smile before turning earnest once more.

“Why should we turn against the Selgovae? They protect us.”

Esca dragged his focus back to the conversation he was in and launched into an explanation. “Protect you? They throw you into a war you want no part in, they use your resources as if they were your own, that's not protection, that's abuse.”

"How can you trust the Romans? Lying dogs." This came from a young man near to him, his lip drawn back as if he'd tasted something foul.

"I – this one we can trust.” Esca said hesitantly, thrown by the abrupt subject change.

“Yes.” He snorted. “You trust him, you were his _slave_.” And the twist the man puts on the word makes it clear how little he thinks of that. “Just because you bent over for him didn't mean we will too.” And he made a crude gesture with his hand, the others around him laughing meanly. Esca's eyes widened, and was for suddenly at a loss as to how to reply. The man grinned viciously.

“It's not Esca who is whoring.” Liathan's voice cuts across the laughter. Esca jerked his head around, he hadn't noticed him approach.

“It's you,” Liathan continued. “You're whoring for the Selgovae, instead of your bodies, you're giving them your men, your warriors, your weapons and your lands. You're signing away generations of lives in slavery to them. How are you the better man?”

Those who had been laughing began to nod, satisfied with Liathan's turning of the insult back on the man. Liathan rested his hands on Esca's shoulders and, nodding to the other's at the table, neatly manoeuvred him out of the way.

“That was well done.” Esca said quietly, snagging a cup of mead from a passing table and drinking deep. Liathan's eyes follow the path of the cup a second before focusing on Esca. “I'll let you keep the speeches. I'm more used to that sort of thing.”

Esca raised an eyebrow. And Liathan, glancing about, lowered his voice. “My brother, was to be chief,” he explained hesitantly. “He died, fighting the Romans. There were those who thought the weakling younger brother was not-”

“Weakling?” Esca interrupted incredulously.

Liathan smiled, though it didn't reach his eyes. “I wasn't always tall.”

Esca frowned, reaching for Liathan's arm.

“Esca,” Una hailed him from across the hall, and he let his hand drop, pushing away from the wall. “And again,” he said long-sufferingly, before diving back into the crowd.

Hours later he walked to the head table and stood, raising his hand and clapping a couple of times to gain everyone's attention. “Friends, you know why we're here, you know what the choices before you are. I cannot choose for you. All I ask is that you consider what you've heard tonight, that you ask if you have questions, ask. Do not make up your minds now. Talk, enjoy the warmth and the generous hospitality of our host.” He gestured towards Camran who flushed at the applause.

“Enjoy the festivities, and tomorrow we will decide. Tonight is the time for enjoying each other's company.” And he stepped down from the table. The bards sitting in the corner of the hall now rose and took up their instruments. Una was over there with her relative, she raised her hand to him in recognition his speech, but didn't come over. Liathan was standing by the central tables and slowly they worked through the crows, long into the night, circling and talking. Talking until Esca's voice was hoarse. Faces grow more flushed from the heat and the mead and the flurry of dancing that erupted as the tables were pushed back.

Esca's head was spinning by the time he managed to escape for a breath of air, taking a corridor off from the hall and leaning heavily against the door to look out at the empty courtyard. He heard footsteps from behind him, and smiled.

Up in the sky the dawn light was starting to stain the clouds.

"We've talked all night,” he said softly, words slurring a little.

Liathan came up beside him, head tilted up to the sky before looking down at Esca. "I think it was worth it."

Esca shrugged, feeling loose. “I can't speak another word. Not one.” He raised his finger clumsily to his lips, brushing his nose before managing to strike his mouth.

Liathan laughed, nudging him with his shoulder. “I think that's a good decision. I think bed, is an even better one, come on.” He slipped his hand around Esca's arm and tugged him away from the door, back inside the house and up towards their room.

"I think, I think we have them," Esca said to Liathan once they we're inside, clumsily taking off his top, and stretching. He glanced over at Liathan when he didn't reply.

Liathan had halted after shutting the door, and was just standing there looking at him. He shook his head, pushing away from the door. “Yes. I, I must-” he gestured towards his woad covered face before abruptly turning on his heel and pulling the door back open again before slipping out.

Esca dropped onto the bed, crawling up to slump against the headboard.

Liathan entered again a little while later, and walked over to his bed, reaching for the edge of his tunic and raising it up over his head. Instead of turning away, Esca let himself watch. Liathan turned to hang his tunic on a chair, and he caught sight of Esca sitting there. Esca stood and Liathan stopped moving, his tunic held between his hands, knuckles turning white as he twisted his fingers in the fabric. Esca stepped forward.

"Esca."

Esca said nothing, just stepped forward again.

"Esca stop."

Esca leaned forward and brushed his hand over Liathan's skin. Following the line of a tattoo up Liathan's side. His muscles twitched under his skin. Esca let his fingers trail up the curve of his shoulder, halting beneath his neck. Then further, sliding over Liathan's jaw and the faint rasp of stubble.

"I like you like this," he said slowly. "Without the paint." He paused, "You are ours, like this."

“I'm not a slave." Liathan made to turn away, and Esca tightened his grip on his jaw.

“You're still ours.”

He leaned in quickly and pressed his lips to Liathan's in a fleeting kiss. Liathan was still for a second, before moving back, Esca swaying forwards, off balance. Liathan caught his wrists. "Esca no, we cannot do this."

"Please, Liathan.”

“Marcus. You love Marcus, and he loves you."

Esca thought of Marcus, but the thought was painful, brought with it the thought of all that would happen tomorrow, all his fear and all his worry.

He dropped his head and relaxed his hands in Liathan's grip. After a second Liathan pulled him in towards him, circling his hands around Esca's back, just holding him.

"It will be all right, Esca. We have done well today. Many will fight with us."

Esca pressed his forehead against Liathan's collar bone and said nothing, inhaling the clean smell of him and breathing softly against his skin.

After a long while, they broke apart. Liathan rested his hand lightly on Esca's shoulder, before pushing him gently towards his bed.

Esca climbed under the covers, the bed feeling cold and empty holding just him.

The next morning they rose early once again. Esca felt sick, his brain dull and painful from all the mead of the night before. Liathan said nothing, but brought him a jug of water and their fingers tangled as he passed the cup over.

The sky was clear and bright, a chill in the air. They didn't speak, Esca couldn't think what words would fit, but strangely he felt as if there were no words needed, as if Liathan already knew whatever it was he'd want to say.

The others were silent over dinner, not just tired from the drink and late night yesterday, the strange tension in the air permeates them as well. As if the entire world knew that their fate would be decided today.

Esca and Liathan went out into the courtyard, sat on a low wall and waited. Presently Una appeared with her people and their group grew a little. Bit by bit, hour by hour their group grew a little more, people drifting out from the house, walking up from the town. Esca's spirits rising with each person that joined them, and more people bring more people until the sun was directly above them and the courtyard was full to bursting with people.

Esca caught Liathan's eyes, seeing his excitement and relief reflected back at him.

Esca stood. “Mount up my friends, we ride within the hour.” He said it loudly, voice carrying.

He bid Camran farewell, thanking him again for his hospitality. “I'm sorry I'm not going with you,” Camran replied.”I wish you well." And he embraced Esca roughly.

Esca mounted and heels his mount towards Liathan, together they rode out from the town, filling the road with people, mounted and on foot, stretching out in far greater numbers than Esca had hoped.

Outside the town warriors from each of the tribes represented at the talks joined up with their chiefs and their numbers slowly swelled to the size of an army.

Their ride towards the wall was very different to that of the Romans from the south, they don't ride in neat formation, their armour didn't shine and they didn't wear brightly coloured plumes atop their heads. They rode with songs and shouting, jostling for place. They rode with movement and laughter and desperate hight spirits to disguise the fear and tension just beneath the surface. Esca thought of Marcus. He tried not to think of Marcus, he caught Liathan's eyes and was suddenly reminded of last night, tracing the line of Liathan's jaw. He remembered trailing his fingers over the curve of Marcus' ear.

His skin felt too thin, too fragile for the feelings inside him. His horse stumbled, his stomach lurched. He was going to throw up.

The sun was finally heading towards the horizon, by the time they arrived at the meeting place. Esca stared at the sun worriedly, counting hours and judging the trajectory. It was setting behind them, their shadows throw long against the ground into the valley that fell away before them. He called a halt.

They waited restlessly, then towards the East, they began to see riders coming out of the trees. A shout went up, cheers rippled backwards. Esca sits ramrod straight in his seat.

Another shout. The shields aren't Roman, the armour, it' not Roman, the formation, not Roman.

“Selgovae!” Someone cries out, and a ripple goes through those gathered. Esca wheels his horse and stood in his stirrup, Looking towards the south, straining his eyes, and... "Halt, halt! Look there!” Over to the south, just as planned, the light glints of Roman shields Roman swords as they rise the crest of the hill.

He turns back to those gathered. “Friends now is the time to stand true. Don't turn away, don't flee, Join us. Fight the Selgovae now, once and for all. Now is our chance.” He points to the Selgovae below them. “We have the sun behind us, we have the higher ground. We can win this.”

Una 's horse cuts through the crowd. “You planned this. There never was any chance at peace.”

Esca gave her a measuring look. “Someone warned those Selgovae to come here.” He thought of the sneering young man from yesterday, noticeably absent from those gathered here today. “We never planned on being caught unawares,” he continued.

He remembered standing in the tent with the centurions. Marcus' finger drifting over the map...

_”Flatlands here, high ground here.” He'd turned to look at Esca. “If we time it right, use the sun.” Marcus had swept his hand over the surface of the map , then clenched his fingers into a tight fist. “We'll have them.”_

“There will be peace.” Esca dragged his attention back to the present. “But not with the Selgovae.” He looked out at those gathered. “Free yourselves of their hold on you. Ride with me now!”

There was a second of stillness, then Una's raised her hand into the air, fist clenched, her expression determined. Behind her hands raised all through those gathered until all their fists were in the air, until the air was thick with shouting, until they were all pressing their heels into their horses sides or leaping forwards on their own two feet, fists now holding weapons, streaming down the hillside to meet the Selgovae as they struggled up to meet them.

The Selgovae had the worse position, and they soon had them pinned between the Romans and themselves, but despite that, within moment Esca's scope was narrowed down to the point of his sword. Battle was a mess and all that mattered was the next attacker. He'd lost sight of Liathan hours (minutes? Days?) back. Una was fighting there beside him, cut and thrust and block and he flowed into the space beside her as she flowed into his, they worked well, cutting their way though the mess of bodies.

He lost her and fought beside strangers the front line shifts back and forwards, pressing down, then retreating up the slope as the battle waxed and waned. The sun dipped lower, glinting redly off their weapons, drenching the slopes in blood coloured light.

Esca was tired, he didn't know how long he'd been fighting, all he knew was his arm and his sword and the next slash and the next, cut one down and there another, another another, until... there wasn't. The crowd thinned and he could see, could see his people, see the Romans and the Selgovae, pressed between them, close, desperate.

And there, to his left, he saw Liathan. Saw him lock weapons with a Selgovae fighter -- the design on his helmet and shield, the way the men shifted around him made Esca think he was someone important, perhaps even the chief. He started wading through people towards him.

Closer, closer, the clash of weapons, the strange echoes that bounce of men and horses and weapons. He cut a man down as he comes between them. Blood spurted hotly from the wound Esca cut into his neck. Esca stumbled from the strength he put in the blow. He pitched forward and righted himself at the last moment. Looked up in time to see the chief feint to the right, then twist suddenly and swing to the left. He dragged his sword back. There was blood on the blade. Liathan stumbled back a step, then fell.

Esca stopped breathing. The entire battle seemed to still. He could hear the whistle of the wind through the far-off trees. _Liathan stumbled back a step._ He could see the blood gather and drip down the chief's blade. An agonisingly slow droplet parting company with the metal.

_Liathan stumbled, fell._

Sound and time rushed back in and Esca was screaming, slashing madly at the bodies between him and Liathan. Then Marcus was there, Marcus appearing as if from nowhere, charging the chief with his entire body, blocking the man's desperate blow with his armour and and smashing his head open with the side of his shield.

Blood sprayed up over his face – over Esca, finally reaching them -- and the chief's eyes were glassy as collapsed onto his back to stare blankly at the sky. A ragged cheer went up from their side, the Selgovae scattering and running. But Esca didn't care, couldn't care when Liathan was on the ground.

They dropped down to the ground together, Marcus on one side, Esca on the other, hands reaching at the same time for his body. Tangling over his chest as it rose and fell

 _It rose and fell._ He was breathing.

Relief crashed over Esca and he was gasping back tears, pressing his hands against the wound in Liathan's side. Not fatal, oh it wasn't fatal.

Liathan was smiling, blood smeared over his cheek. “We did it?” His eyes slid to Marcus, reading his expression. “We did it.” He nodded. His hand finding Marcus' and gripping tightly.

Marcus leaned forward suddenly and pressed his lips to Liathan's. The expression of shock on Liathan's face would have been comical were Esca not still shaking from nerves.

“Liathan” Marcus' voice was hoarse “I can't- don't do that again.”

Liathan nodded, eyes wide. “All right,” he said softly. He flexed his hand in Marcus' grip, but didn't let go.

Esca shook his head and the block in his throat eased as he laughed. Laughed and there were tears falling down his cheeks. He leaned in and rested his head against Marcus' armoured shoulder.

“Finally,” he said. “It took you long enough.” A laugh still hiccuping at the back of his throat.

Marcus turned his face in to whisper in Esca's ear. “But you love us.”

And Esca turned his face to meet him; the kiss tasting of salt and blood.


End file.
